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WHEN simple Macer, now of high renown, First sought a poet's fortune in the town, 'Twas all th' ambition his high soul could feel To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele. Some ends of verse his betters might afford, And gave
the harmless fellow a good word : Set up
with these he ventur'd on the town, And with a borrow'd play outdid poor Crowne.? There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle, But has the wit to make the most of little; Like stunted hide-bound trees, that just have got Sufficient
at once to bear and rot. Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends, Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.
So some coarse country wench, almost decay’d, Trudges to town and first turns chambermaid ; Awkward and supple each devoir to pay, She flatters her good lady twice a day; Thought wondrous honest, though of mean degree, And strangely lik’d for her simplicity:
1 Either James Moore Smith, or, more probably, Ambrose Philips.
2 John Crowne, the author of various dramas, contemporary with Dryden.
In a translated suit then tries the town,
SONG, BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733.
FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions,
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers ;
Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Thus when Philomela drooping
ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT.1
I know the thing that's most uncommon ;
Not warp'd by passion, aw'd by rumour,
1 Mrs. Howard, afterwards Countess of Suffolk.
“ Has she no faults then (Envy says), sir?”
ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM,
COMPOSED OF MARBLES, SPARS, GEMS, ORES,
Thou who shalt stop where Thames' translucent
Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave;
the mine without a wish for gold. Approach ; but awful! lo! the Ægerian grot, Where, nobly pensive, St. John sate and thought; Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole, And the bright flame was shot through March
mont's soul. Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor, Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
VERSES TO MR. C.
ST. JAMES'S PLACE.
London, Oct. 22. Few words are best; I wish you well ;
Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here ; Some morning walks along the mall,
And evening friends will end the year.,
If, in this interval, between
The falling leaf and coming frost, You please to see, on Twitnam green,
Your friend, your poet and your host ;
For three whole days you
rest From office business, news, and strife; And (what most folks would think a jest)
Want nothing else, except your wife.
TO MR. GAY,
WHO HAD CONGRATULATED POPE ON FINISHIXG HIS
HOUSE AND GARDENS.
An, friend ! 'tis true—this truth you lovers
knowIn vain my structures rise, my gardens grow, In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens :