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Hear how a ghost in dead of night,
With saucer eyes of fire,
A wit and courtly squire:
Like puppy tame, that uses
The works of all the Muses. Ah! why did he write poetry,
That hereto was so civil;
To rhyming and the devil ?
With glittering studs about;
Though Ovid lay without. Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought,
Forth popp'd the sprite so thin,
All upright as a pin.
And ruff compos’d most duly,
While as the light burnt bluely. Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandys' sprite,
Write on, nor let me scare ye! Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right, To Budgell seek or Carey.
Í hear the beat of Jacob's 3 drums,
Poor Ovid finds no quarter!
In haste without his garter.
Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers:
Beats up for volunteers.
Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
John Dunton, Steele, or any one.
Some frigid rhymes disburses,
And glad both babes and nurses.
And Ozell's with Lord Hervey's,
And Pope translate with Jervas.
Who bows to every lady,
And be like Tate and Brady.
8 Old Jacob Tonson, the publisher of the Metamorphoses. * Perhaps Pembroke.
Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen ;
where can the hurt lie ? Since
have brains as well as men, As witness Lady Wortley.
Now, Tonson, list thy forces all,
Review them and tell noses ; For to poor Ovid shall befall
A strange metamorphosis ;
A metamorphosis more strange
Than all his books can vapour“ To what (quoth 'squire) shall Ovid change?"
Quoth Sandys, “ To waste paper."
Close to the best known author Umbra sits, The constant index to old Button's wits. “ Who's here?” cries Umbra.“ Only Johnson.
-"0! Your slave,” and exit ; but returns with Rowe. “Dear Rowe, let's sit and talk of tragedies :" Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies. Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel, And in a moment fastens upon Steele ;
1 Intended, it is said, for Ambrose Philips. 2 Charles Johnson, a third-rate dramatist.
But cries as soon, “ Dear Dick, I must be gote,
Fool! 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam ;
SYLVIA, A FRAGMENT.1
Sylvia my heart in wondrous wise alarm’d,
and studious in no point to fall,
1 Introduced, with some alterations, into the Second of the Jloral Epistles, of the Characters of Women.
Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman's in her soul a rake. Frail, feverish sex; their fit now chills, now burns; Atheism and superstition rule by turns ; And a mere heathen in the carnal part, Is still a sad good Christian at her heart.
IMPROMPTU, TO LADY WINCHELSEA.1
OCCASIONED BY FOUR SATIRICAL VERSES ON WOMEN WITS,
IN THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.
In vain you boast poetic names of yore,
1 Authoress of a volume of poems, some of which possess very great merit.