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The World. As Sherlock at Temple was taking a boat, The world's a book, writ by th' eternal art The waterman ask'd him which way he would of the great Author ; printed in man's heart; float.

"Tis falsely printed, though divinely penn'd; Which way? says the Doctor: why, fool, with And all th’errata will appear at th' end.

the stream. To Paul's or to Lambeth, 'twas all one to him.

On the Battle of the Books. On a Prelate's going out of Church in Time of Swift for the ancients has argu'd so well,

Divine Service, to wait on the Lord Lieute- 'Tis apparent from thence that the moderns nant of Ireland.

excel. LORD Pam in the Church (could you think

it?) kneel'd down: When, told that the duke was just come to A Welshman and an Englishman disputed,

Which of their lands maintain'd the greatest town,


[futed, His station despising, unaw'd by the place, He Alies from his God to attend on his Grace.

The Englishman the Welshman quite conTo the court it was fitter to pay his devotion,

The Welshman yet would not his vaunts Since God had no share in his lordship's pro- Ten cooks, quoth he, in Wales, one wedding

abate. motion,

Ah, quoth the other, each man toasts his cheese. A HUM'rous fellow in a tavern late, Being drunk and valiant, gets a broken pate:

From the Latin. The surgeon, with his instruments and skill,

UNHAPPY, Dido, was thy fate, Searches his skull deeper and deeper still,

In first and second wedded state! To feel his brains, and try if they were sound; One husband caus'd thy flight by dying, And, as he keeps ado about the wound,

Thy death the other caus'd by flying. The fellow cries-Good surgeon, spare your

pains : When I began this brawl I had no brains. On the Funeral of Vulture Hopkins.

What dum'rous lights this wretch's corpse

attend, By fav'ring wit Mæcenas purchas'd fame,

Who, in his life-time, sav'd a candle's end! Virgil's own works immortaliz'd his name: A double share of fame is Dorset's due, At once the patron and the poet too.

The Humourist. Imitated from Martial. In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow,

Thou’rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow, Pollio must needs to penitence excite; Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen, about For see, his scarves are rich, and gloves are thee, white.

There is no living with thee, nor without thee. Behold his notes display'd, his body rais'd: With what a zeal he labours to be prais'd ! No stubborn sinner able to withstand The force and reasoning of his wig and band: A scholar, him thus insolently greets :

A HAUGHTY courtier meeting in the streets Much better pleas'd, so pious his intent, With five that laugh than fifty who repent.

Base men to take the wall I ne'er permit. On moral duties when his tongue refines,

The scholar said, I do; and gave him it. Tully and Plato are his best divines : What Matthew says, or Mark, the proof but small;

Thus with kind words Sir Edward cheer'd What Locke or Clarke asserts, good scripture

his friend : all.

Dear Dick! thou on my friendship mayst deTouch'd with each weakness which he does

pend : arraign,

I know thy fortune is but very scant; With vanity he talks against the vain ;

But be assur’d, I'll ne'er see Dick in want. With ostentation does to meekness guide,

Dick's soon confin'd-his friend, no doubt, Proud of his periods levell'd against pride;

would free him ; Ambitiously the love of glory slights, His word he kept-in want he ne'er would And damns the love of faine-for which he

see him. writes.

When men of infamy to grandeur sour, The Latin word for cold, one ask'd his friend; They light a torch to show their shame the It is, said he 'tis at my finger's end.




On the Offering made by King James I. at a To the Author of an Epitaph on Dr. Mead. grave Comedy, called the Marriage of Arts.

HACKETT. At Christ-Church Marriage, play'd before

Mead's not dead then, you say, only sleeping the king,

a little ? Lest these learn'd mates should want an offer- Why, egad! Sir, you've hit it off there to a ing,

tittle : The king himself did offer—what, I pray? Yet, friend, his awaking I very much doubtHe offer'd, twice or thrice, to go away.

Pluto knows whom he's got, and will ne'er let

him out. A Country Parson's Answer to a young

Lady who sent her Compliments on the Ten of

To Mr. Pope. Hearts.

While malice, Pope, denies thy page
Your compliments, dear lady, pray forbear; while critics and while bards in rage,

Its own celestial fire ;
Old English services are more sincere :
You send ten hearts, the tithe is only mine;

Admiring, won't admire:
Give me but one, and burn the other nine. While wayward pens thy works assail,

And envious tongues decry;

These times though many a friend bewail, By Dr. Donne.

These times bewail not I. I am unable, yonder beggar cries,

But when the world's loud praise is thine, To stand or go. If he says true, he lies. And spleen no more shall blame;

When with thy Homer thou shalt shine

In one establish'd fame :
Moore always smiles whenever he recites ;
He smiles, you think, approving what he writes. When none shall rail, and ev'ry lay
And yet in this no vanity is shown;

Devote a wreath to thee :
. A modest man may like what's not his own. That day (for come it will)—that day

Shall I lament to see.
To a Writer of long Epitaphs.

British Economy.
FRIEND, in your Epitaphs I'm griev'd

In merry Old England it once was a rule, So very much is said: One half will never be believ'd,

The king had his poet, and also his fool : The other nerer read.

But now we're so frugal, I'd have you to know it,


Poor Cibber must serve both for fool and for To Mr. Thomson, who had procured the Author a Benefit Night.


Found stuck on the Statue of the Moor which Reflecting on thy worth, methinks I find supports the Sun-Dial in Clement's-Inn. Thy various Seasons in their Author's mind.

In vain, poor sable son of woe,
Spring opes her blossoms various as thy muse Thou seek'st the tender tear;
And, like thy soft compassion, sheds her dews. From thee in vain with pangs they flow,
Summer's hot drought in thy expression glows,

For mercy dwells not here.
And o'er each page a tawny ripeness throws.
Autumn's rich fruits th’ instructed reader gains, From cannibals thou Aledd'st in vain,
Who tastes the meaning purpose of thy strains.

Lawyers less quarter give;
Winter-but that no semblance takes froni The first won't eat you till you're slain,
thee :

The last will do't alive. That hoary season yields a type of me. Shatter'd by Time's weak storms I with’ring lay, When Jack was poor, the lad was frank and Leafless, and whitening in a cold decay! Yet shall my propless ivy, pale and bent, Of late he's grown brimful of pride and pelf. Bless the short sunshine which thy pity lent. You wonder that he don't remeinber me:

Why so ? You see he has forgot himself. The Fan. ATTERBURY.

By Prior. Flavia the least and slightest toy

To John I owed great obligation; Can with resistless art employ:

But John unhappily thought fit This fan, in meaner hands, would prove

To publish it to all the nation:
An engine of small force in love :

Sure John and I are more than quit.
Yet she, with graceful air and mien,
Not to be told, or safely seen,
Directs its wanton motions so,

On the Bursar of St. John's College in Oxford That it wounds more than Cupid's bow;

cutting down a fine Row of Trees. Gives coolness to the matchless dame,

INDULGENT nature to each kind bestows To ev'ry other breast a flame.

A secret instinct to discern its foes :





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The goose, a silly bird, avoids the fox: I heard thy anxious coachman say,
Lambs Ay from wolves, and sailors steer from It cost thee more in whips than hay.

rocks :
A rogue the gallows as his fate foresees,

A Cure for Poetry. And bears the like antipathy to trees.

Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer

dead, Good Music and bad Dancers. Through which the living Homer begg'd his

bread! How ill the motion with the music suits ! So Orpheus play'd, and like them danc'd the On some Snow which melted on a Lady's Breast. brutes.

The envious snow comes down in haste

To prove thy breast less fair, Ye little wits, that gleam'd a while,

But grieves to see itself surpast,
While Pope vouchsafed a ray;

And melts into a tear.
Alas! depriv'd of his kind smile,
How soon ye
fade away!

The French Poel.
To compass Phæbus' car about,
Thus empty vapors rise ;

When old Elijah, as the Scriptures say, Each lends his cloud to put him out,

Triumphant mounted to the realms of day, That rear'd him to the skies.

His spirit doubled, and his cloak beside, Alas! these skies are not your sphere;

He gave Elisha, by long service tried.

Tristan from hence would fain example take, There he shall ever burn :

For honest Quinault his disciple's sake; Weep, weep, and fall; for earth ye were,

But this, alas ! injurious fate denied, And must to earth return.

For Tristan poorer than a prophet died.

To Quinault thus the bard, expiring, spoke : So much, my Pope, thy English Iliad charms,

My wit I leave thee-but I have no cloak." As pity inelts us, or as passion warms; That after-ages shall with wonder seek

Pox on't, quoth Time to Thomas Hearne, Who 'twas translated Homer into Greek. Whatever I forget you learn.


Answered by Mr. West. The golden hair that Galla wears,

D-n it, quoth Hearne, in furious fret, Is hers: who would have thought it?

Whate'er I learn you soon forget.
She swears 'tis hers; and true she swears,
For I know where she bought it.

Dr. Aldrich's Five Reasons for Drinking.

Good wine; a friend; or being dry;
To Lady Isabella Thynne, culting Trees in Or lest we should be by and by;

WALLER. Or any other reason why.
Fair hand, that can on virgin paper write,
Yet from the stain of ink preserve it white;

Whose travel o'er that silver field does show

THYRSIS, a youth of the inspir'd train, Like tracks of leverets in morning snow: Fair Saccharissa lov’d, but lov'd in vain; Love's image thus in purest minds is wrought, Like Phæbus sung the no less am’rous bor; Without a spot or blemish to the thought. Like Daphne she, as lovely and as coy. Strange, that your fingers should the pencil foil, With numbers he the flying nymph pursues, Without the help of colors or of oil !

With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use; For though a painter boughs and leaves can all, but the nymph who should redress his make,

wrong, 'Tis yours alone to make them bend and shake, Attend his passion, and approve his song: Whose breath salutes your new-created grore Like Phæbus thus acquiring unsought praise, Like southern winds, and makes it gently move. He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arins with bars. Orpheus could make the forest dance, but

Can make the motion and the forest too.
A poet, when he would describe his mind,

By Prior.
Is, as in language, so in fame, confin'd; On his death-bed poor Simon lies,
Your works are read wherever there are men : His spouse is in despair :
So far the scissors go beyond the pen. With frequent sobs and mutual cries,

They both express their care.
By Prior.

A diff'rent cause, says Parson Sly,

The same effect may give;
Thy nags, the leanest things alive,

Poor Simon fears that he shall die,
So very hard thou lov'st to drive,

His wife—that he may live.


Written on the Bed-chamber Door of Charles II.

By Pope. ROCHESTER. Muse, 'tis enough; at length thy labor ends, Here lies our sovereign lord the King,

And thou shalt live-for Buckingham comWhose word no man relies on ;

mends. He never says a foolish thing,

Let crowds of critics now my verse assail, Nor ever does a wise one.

Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail ;
This more than pays whole years of thankless

To Phyllis.

Time, pain, and fortune, are not lost in vain ; That little patch upon your face

Sheffield approves, consenting Phæbus bends, Would seem a foil on one less fair;

And I and Malice from this hour are friends. On you it hides a killing grace, And you in pity plac'd it there.

On a certain Beauty.

Mistaken nature here has join'd

A beauteous face and ugly mind;

In vain the faultless features strike, As after noon, one summer's day,

When soul and body are unlike:
Venus stood bathing in a river ;

Pity that snowy breast should hide
Cupid a-shooting went that way,
New-strung his bow, new-fill'd his quiver. So in rich jars, from China brought,

Deceit, and avarice, and pride.
With skill he chose his sharpest dart; With glowing colors gaily wrought,

With all his might his bow he drew: Ofttimes the subtle spider dwells, Swift to his beauteous parent's heart

With secret venom bloated swells; The too well guided arrow few.

Weaves all his fatal nets within,
I faint! I die! the goddess cried :

As unsuspected as unseen.
O cruel! couldst thou find none other
To wreak thy spleen on, parricide?

By Waller.
Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.

Were men so dull they could not see Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak; That Lyce painted; should they flee,

Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye: Like simple birds, into a net
Alas! how easy my mistake!

So grossly woven and ill-set;
I took you for your likeness, Chloe. Her own teeth would undo the knot,

And let all go that she had got.

These teeth my Lyce must not show,
From the Greek. Prior.

If she would bite : her lovers, though
Venus, take my votive glass,

Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes, Since I am not what I was ;

Are disabus'd when first she gapes: What from this day I shall be,

The rotten bones discover'd there, Venus, let me never see !

Show 'tis a painted sepulchre.

Written on a Glass, by a Gentleman who lor.

To Mr. Pope. Towed the Earl of Chesterfield's Diamond Depend not upon verse for fame, Pencil.

Though none can equal thine: Accept a miracle, instead of wit:

Our language never rests the same; See two dull lines by Stanhope's pencil writ!

"Twill rise, or 'twill decline.

Thy wreaths, in course of Aleeting hours, On Lady Manchester. Addison.

Too soon will be decay'd;

But story lasts, though modern flow'rs
Whilst haughty Gallia's dames, that spread

Of poetry must fade.
O'er the pale cheeks an artful red,
Beheld this beauteous stranger there,

A surer way then wouldst thou find
In native charms divinely fair;

Thy glory to prolong, Confusion in their looks they show'd,

Whilst there remains amongst

mankind And with unusual blushes glow'd.

The sense of right and wrong;
Thy fame with nature's self shall end,

Let future times but know
Suicide. Dr. Sewel.

That Atterbury was thy friend,
When all the blandishments of life are gone, And Bentley was thy foe.
The coward sneaks to death, the brave live on.

By Lord Hervey. Young Courtly takes me for a dunce; Possess'd of one great hall for state, For all night long I spoke not once.

Without one room to sleep or eat; On better grounds I think him such: How well you build, let flattery tell, He spoke but once, yet once too much. And all mankind how ill you dwell.


Written in a Window of the Tower, over the

Name of R. Walpole, confined in the same
Room, Ann. Dom. 1712. LANSDOWNE.

Friend Isaac; 'tis strange, you, that lived so

near Bray,

Should not set up the sign of the Vicar; Good unexpected, evil unforeseen,

Though it may be an odd one, you cannot but say Appear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene; It must needs be a sign of good liquor. Some rais'd aloft come tumbling down again, And fall so hard, they bound and rise again.


Indeed, Master Poet, your reason's but poor ; The Manchester Millers named Bone and Skin.

For the Vicar would think it a sin

stay, like a booby, and lounge at the door; Bone and Skin, two millers thin,

"Twere a sign 'twas bad liquor within. Would starve us all, or near it: But be it known to Skin and Bone,

By a Porter, on the Gin Act. To a Great Mor. That flesh and blood can't bear it.

Why will you make us coolly think?

If you would govern, we must drink.
By Sir G. Lyttelton.

Giles Jolt.
None without hope e'er lov'd the brightest fair,
But love can hope where reason would despair. Some waggish pilf'rers stole his team away.

Giles Jout as sleeping in his cart he lay,

Giles wakes, and cries, “ What's here? OdsTrue wit is like the brilliant stone

dicken! what? Dug from the Indian mine;

Why how now? am I Giles, or am I not? Which boasts two diff'rent pow'rs in one, If he, I've lost six geldings, to my smart : To cut as well as shine.

If not, odsbuddikins! I've found a cart.
Genius, like that, if polish'd right,
With the same gifts abounds;

To Zoilus.
Appears at once both keen and bright,
And sparkles while it wounds.

With industry I spread your praise,
With equal you my censure blaze;

But, faith! 'tis all in vain we do,
The Difference between the Ancients und

The world nor credits me nor you.

Milton. DRYDEN.
Some for the ancients zealously declare;
Others, our modern wits are fools, aver :

Three poets in three distant ages born, A third affirms, that they are much the same, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn: And differ only as to time and name:

The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd, Yet sure one more distinction may be told; The next in majesty, in both the last. Those once were new, but these will ne'er beold. The force of Nature could no farther go :

To make a third, she join'd the other two. To Mr. Pope, on his Epitaph on Mr. Gay.

LORD Orrery. On the Duchess of Marlborough's Offer of 500l.

for the best Poem on the Duke's Actions. EntomB'D with kings though Gay's cold Five hundred pounds! too small a boon

ashes lie,
A nobler monument thy strains supply.

To put the poet's muse in tune,
Thy matchless muse, still faithful to thy friend, Should she attempt ih' heroic story

That nothing might escape her:
By courts unaw'd, his virtues dare commend.

Of the illustrious Churchill's glory,
Lamented Gay! forget thy treatment past,

It scarce would buy the paper.
Look down, and see thy merit crown'd at last.
A destiny more glorious who can hope?
In life belov'd, in death bemoau’d, by Pope.

Scotland. CLEVELAND.

Had Cain been a Scot, God would have al. On the Queen's Grotto at Richmond.

ter'd his doom ;

Not forc'd him to wander, but confind him at Lewis the living genius fed,

home. And rais'd the scientific head; Our Queen, more frugal of her meat,

By PRIOR. Raises those heads which cannot eat.

Thus to the Muses spoke the Cyprian daine :

Adorn my altars, and revere my name; I heard last week, friend Edward, thou wast My son shall else assume his potent darts : dead.

Twang goes the bow ! my girls, have at your I'm very glad to hear it too, cries Ned.

hearts !



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