But, soon as e'er the beauteous idiot spoke, Forth from her coral lips such folly broke, Like balm the trickling nonsense heal'd my wound,
Firm vigor crowns our youthful stage, And venerable hairs old age. Since all is good, then who would cry, [bound." I'd never live, or quickly die ?" Mutual Pity.
And what her eyes enthrall'd, her tongue un
Or all the pens which my poor rhymes molest, Cotin's the sharpest, and succeeds the best; Others outrageous scold, and rail downright With serious rancor and true Christian spite; But he, more sly, pursues his fell design, Writes scoundrel verses, and then says they're mine.
On a Regiment sent to Oxford, and a Present of Books to Cambridge, by King George I. 1715. Dr. TRAPP.
THE king, observing with judicious eyes The state of both his universities, To one he sent a regiment; for why? That learned body wanted loyalty. To th' other he sent books, as well discerning How much that loyal body wanted learning.
Answered by Sir WM. BROWNE.
THE king to Oxford sent his troop of horse,
For Tories own no argument but force;
With equal care, to Cambridge books he sent,
For Whigs allow no force but argument.
Against Life. From the Greek of Posidippus.
WHAT tranquil road, unvex'd by strife,
Can mortals choose through human life?
Attend the courts, attend the bar,
There discord reigns, and endless jar :
At home the weary wretches find
Severe disquietude of mind:
To till the fields gives toil and pain;
Eternal terrors sweep the main :
If rich, we fear to lose our store;
Need and distress await the poor :
Sad cares the bands of Hymen give;
Friendless, forlorn, th' unmarried live:
Are children born, we anxious groan;
Childless, our lack of heirs we moan:
Wild, giddy schemes our youth engage;
Weakness and wants depress old age.
Would fate then with my wish comply,
I'd never live, or quickly die.
For Life. From the Greek of Metrodorus.
MANKIND may rove, unvex'd by strife,
Through ev'ry road of human life.
Fair wisdom regulates the bar,
And peace concludes the wordy war:
At home auspicious mortals find
Serene tranquillity of mind:
All-beauteous nature decks the plain;
And merchants plough for gold the main :
Respect arises from our store;
Security from being poor :
More joys the bands of Hymen give;
Th' unmarried with more freedom live:
If parents, our blest lot we own;
Childless, we have no cause to moan;
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WHEN Loveless married Lady Jenny,
Whose beauty was the ready penny;
"I chose her," says he, "like old plate,
Not for the fashion, but the weight."
On a great House adorned with Statues. THE walls are thick, the servants thin; The gods without, the dev'l within.
On a hasty Marriage.
MARRIED! 'tis well! a mighty blessing!
But poor 's the joy, no coin possessing.
In ancient times, when folk did wed,
'Twas to be one at "board and bed:"
But hard's his case who can't afford
His charmer either bed or board.
The musical Contest. SWIFT.
SOME say that Signior Bononcini,
Compar'd to Handel, 's a mere ninny:
Others aver that to him Handel
Is scarcely fit to hold a candle.
Strange! that such difference should be
"Twixt Tweedledum and Tweedledee!
O! next him, skill'd to draw the tender tear,
You ask why Roome* diverts you with his For never heart felt passion more sincere;
Yet, if he prints, is dull as other folks?
You wonder at it!-This, sir, is the case:
The jest is lost unless he prints his face.
On certain Pastorals.
So rude and tuneless are thy lays,
The weary audience vow, 'Tis not th' Arcadian swain that sings, But 'tis his herds that low.
On a Gentleman who expended his Fortune in Horse-Racing.
JOHN ran so long, and ran so fast,
No wonder he ran out at last;
He ran in debt; and then, to pay,
He distanc'd all-and ran away.
A BLOOMING youth lies buried here; Euphemius, to his country dear : Nature adorn'd his mind and face With ev'ry muse and ev'ry grace: Prepar'd the marriage state to prove, But Death had quicker wings than Love.
WIND, gentle evergreen, to form a shade Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid : Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwine With blushing roses and the clust❜ring vine: Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung,
Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung:
Whose soul, exalted, like a god of wit,
Among the muses and the graces writ.
On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke.
BEN JONSON.
UNDERNEATH this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Fair, and wise, and good as she,
Time shall throw his dart at thee.
By BEN JONSON.
UNDERNEATH this stone doth lie
As much virtue as could die;
Which, when alive, did vigor give
To as much beauty as could live.
If she had a single fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
Intended for Dryden. POPE.
THIS Sheffield rais'd. The sacred dust be
Was Dryden once: the rest who does not know? On Mr. Rowe. POPE.
THY relics, Rowe! to this sad shrine we trust,
[bust. And near thy Shakspeare place thy honor'd
To nobler sentiments to fire the brave,
For never Briton more disdain'd a slave;
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest;
Bless'd in thy genius, in thy love too bless'd!
And bless'd, that, timely from our scene re-
mov'd,
Thy soul enjoys the liberty it lov'd.
On Mr. Fenton. POPE.
THIS modest stone, what few vain marbles can,
May truly say, "Here lies an honest man:"
A poet, bless'd beyond a poet's fate, [great.
Whom Heaven kept sacred from the proud and
Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease,
Content with science in the vale of peace,
Calmly he look'd on either life, and here
Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;
From nature's temp'rate feast rose satisfied,
Thank'd Heaven that he had liv'd, and that he
died.
Or manners gentle, of affections mild; In wit a man, simplicity a child; With native humor temp'ring virtuous rage, Form'd to delight at once and lash the age: Above temptation in a low estate, And uncorrupted e'en among the great: A safe companion, and an easy friend, Unblam'd through life, lamented in his end: These are thy honors! not that here thy bust Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust; But that the worthy and the good shall say, Striking their pensive bosoms-Here lies Gay. PRIOR on himself.
To me 'tis given to die, to thee 'tis given To live; alas! one moment sets.us even; Mark how impartial is the will of Heaven! To the Pie-house Memory of Nell Batchelor the Oxford Pie-Woman. HERE, into the dust
The mouldering crust
Of Eleanor Batchelor's shoven;
Well vers'd in the arts
Of pies, custards, and tarts, And the lucrative skill of the oven. When she'd liv'd long enough, She made her last puffA puff by her husband much prais'd: Now here she doth lie, And makes a dirt-pie, In hopes that her crust shall be rais'd.
Posthumous Fame.
A MONSTER, in a course of vice grown old Leaves to his gaping heir his ill-gain'd gold: Now breathes his bust, now are his virtue shown,
*Author of a paper called Pasquin, reflecting on Their date commencing with the sculptur Mr. Pope, &c.
If on his specious marble we rely,
Pity a worth like his should ever die!
If credit to his real life we give,
Pity a wretch like him should ever live!
On Mr. Craggs. POPE.
STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honor clear!
Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end;
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend!
Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd; [lov'd.
Prais'd, wept, and honor'd, by the muse he
APPROACH, ye wise of soul, with awe divine : [shrine! "Tis Newton's name that consecrates this That sun of knowledge, whose meridian ray Kindled the gloom of nature into day! That soul of science, that unbounded mind, That genius which ennobled human kind! Confess'd supreme of men, his country's pride; And half esteemed an angel-till he died: Who in the eye of Heaven like Enoch stood, And through the paths of knowledge walk'd with God:
Whose fame extends, a sea without a shore! Who but forsook one world to know the laws of more.
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To the dark and silent tomb
Soon I hasted from the womb;
Scarce the dawn of life began
Ere I measur'd out my span.
I no smiling pleasures knew;
I no gay delights could view ;
Joyless sojourner was I,
Only born to weep and die.
Happy infant, early blest!
Rest, in peaceful slumber rest;
Early rescu'd from the cares
Which increase with growing years.
No delights are worth thy stay,
Smiling as they seem, and gay;
Short and sickly are they all,
Hardly tasted ere they pall.
All our gayety is vain,
All our laughter is but pain:
Lasting, only, and divine,
Is an innocence like thine.
Epitaph on Mrs. Mason, in the Cathedral at Bristol. MASON.
TAKE, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear: Take that best gift which Heaven so lately
Epitaph on Mrs. Clarke. GRAY.
Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother, sleeps;
A heart, within whose sacred cell
The peaceful virtues lov'd to dwell.
Affection warm, and faith sincere,
And soft humanity, were there.
In agony, in death resign'd,
She felt the wound she left behind.
Her infant image, here below,
Sits smiling on a father's woe:
Whom what awaits, while yet he strays
Along the lonely vale of days?
A pang to secret sorrow dear;
A sigh, an unavailing tear,
Till time shall ev'ry grief remove,
With life, with mem'ry, and with love.
The Prayer of a wise Heathen.
GREAT Jove, this one petition grant;
(Thou knowest best what mortals want ;)
Ask'd or unask'd, what's good supply;
What's evil, to our pray'rs deny!
An Incident in high Life.
THE Bucks had din'd, and deep in council
[flat:
Their wine was brilliant, but their wit grew
Up starts his Lordship, to the window flies,
And lo!" A race! a race!" in rapture cries.
"Where?" quoth Sir John. "Why, see! two
drops of rain
Start from the summit of the crystal pane:
A thousand pounds, which drop with nimblest
force
Performs its current down the slippery course!"
The bets were fix'd; the dire suspense they wait
For victory pendent on the nod of Fate.
Now down the sash, unconscious of the prize,
The bubbles roll-like pearls from Chloe's eyes.
But, ah! the glittering joys of life are short!How oft two jostling steeds have spoil'd the sport!
Lo! thus attraction, by coercive laws,
Th' approaching drops into one bubble draws.
Each curs'd his fate, that thus their project
cross'd;
How hard their lot, who neither won nor lost!
A Court Audience.
OLD South, a witty churchman reckon'd,
Was preaching once to Charles the Second;
But, much too serious for a court,
Who at all preaching made a sport,
He soon perceiv'd his audience nod,
Deaf to the zealous man of God.
The doctor stopp'd, began to call,
"Pray wake the Earl of Lauderdale :
My lord! why, 'tis a monstrous thing!
You snore so loud you'll wake the king!"
On a Dispute between Dr. Radcliffe and Sir
Godfrey Kneller.
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If ever I find it unlock'd any more."
"Your threats," replies Radcliffe, "disturb
not my ease;
And, so you don't paint it, e'en do what you
please."
"You're smart," rejoins Kneller; "but say what you will:
I'll take any thing from you-but potion or pill."
On Mr. Nash's Picture at full Length, be-
tween the Busts of Sir Isaac Newton and
Mr. Pope, at Bath. CHESTERFIELD.
THE old Egyptians hid their wit
In hieroglyphic dress,
To give men pains in search of it,
And please themselves with guess.
Moderns, to hit the self-same path,
And exercise their parts,
Place figures in a room at Bath:
Forgive them, God of arts
Newton, if I can judge aright,
All Wisdom does express;
His knowledge gives mankind delight,
Adds to their happiness.
Pope is the emblem of true Wit,
The sunshine of the mind;
Read o'er his works in search of it,
You'll endless pleasure find.
Nash represents man in the mass,
Made up of wrong and right;
Sometimes a king, sometimes an ass,
Now blunt, and now polite.
The picture, plac'd the busts between,
Adds to the thought much strength;
Wisdom and Wit are little seen,
But Folly's at full length.
EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL.
Book i. Ep. 11.
CURMUDGEON the rich widow courts;
'Tis to Curmudgeon charm enough,
Nor lively she, nor made for sports;
That she has got a church-yard cough.
Book i. Ep. 14.
WHEN Arria from her wounded side
To Pætus gave the reeking steel,
"I feel not what I've done," she cried;
"What Pætus is to do, I feel."
BEFORE a swan, behind a crow,
Such self-deceit ne'er did I know.
Ah! cease your arts-Death knows you're gray,
And, spite of all, will keep his day.
WITH lace bedizen'd comes the man,
And I must dine with Lady Anne.
A silver service loads the board,
SIR Godfrey and Radcliffe had one common Of eatables a slender hoard. way "Your pride and not your victuals Into one common garden-and each had a key. I came to dine, and not to stare."
Book vii. Ep. 75.
WHEN dukes in town ask thee to dine,
To rule their roast, and smack their wine;
Or take thee to their country seat,
To mark their dogs, and bless their meat;
dream not on preferment soon:
Thou'rt not their friend, but their buffoon.
Book i. Ep. 40.
Is there t'enrol amongst the friendly few,
Whose names pure faith and ancient fame re-
Is there, enrich'd with virtue's honest store,
Deep vers'd in Latian and Athenian lore;
Is there, who right maintains, and truth pur-
sues,
Nor knows a wish that Heaven can refuse?
Is there, who can on his great self depend?
Now let me die, but Harris is this friend.
No mourner he who must by praise be fee'd;
But he who mourns in secret, mourns indeed!
Book i. Ep. 39.
THE verses, friend, which thou hast read,
are mine;
[thine.
But, as thou read'st them, they may pass for
Book ii. Ep. 3.
You say, you nothing owe; and so I say: He only owes, who something has to pay. Book ii. Ep. 58.
YOU'RE fine, and ridicule my thread-bare gown:
Thread-bare indeed it is; but 'tis my own.
I DROPP'D a thing in verse, without a name;
I felt no censure, and I gain'd no fame :
The public saw the bastard in the cradle,
But ne'er inquir'd; so left it to the beadle.
WHEN Fannius should have 'scap'd his foe, A certain nobleman takes up the child;
His own hands stopp'd his breath:
And was 't not madness, I would know,
By dying to 'scape death?
HIMSELF he slew, when he the foe would fly; What madness this-for fear of death to die!
THOU, whom (if faith or honor recommends
A friend) I rank amongst my dearest friends,
Remember you are now almost threescore;
Few days of life remain, if any more:
Defer not what no future time ensures;
And only what is past, esteem that yours.
Successive cares and troubles for you stay;
Pleasure not so; it nimbly fleets away:
Then seize it fast; embrace it ere it flies;
In the embrace it vanishes and dies.
"I'll live to-morrow," will a wise man say?
To-morrow is too late-then live to-day.
From Martial, literally translated.
A LANDLORD at Bath put upon me a queer hum: [mere rum.* I ask'd him for punch, and the dog gave me Book ii. Ep. 41.
YES; I submit, my lord; you've gain'd your end: [friend. I'm now your slave, that would have been your I'll bow, I'll cringe, be supple as your glove, Respect, adore you-every thing, but love. Book viii. Ep. 19.
HAL says he's poor, in hopes you'll say he's not; [groat. But take his word for't: Hal's not worth a
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The real father lay perdu, and smil❜d.
The public now enlarges ev'ry grace:
What shining eyes it has! how fair a face!
Of parts what symmetry! what strength divine!
The noble brat is sure of Pelops' line.
An Epitaph to the Memory of Lucy Lyttelton.
MADE to engage all hearts, and charm all
[wise;
Though meek, magnanimous; though witty,
Polite as all her life in courts had been,
Yet good as she the world had never seen;
The noble fire of an exalted mind,
With gentle female tenderness combin'd;
Her speech was the melodious voice of love;
Her song the warbling of the vernal grove;
Her eloquence was sweeter than her song,
Soft as her heart, and as her reason strong;
Her form each beauty of her mind express'd;
Her mind was virtue by the graces dress'd.
Epitaph on Miss Stanley. THOMSON.
HERE, Stanley! rest, escap'd this mortal
strife,
Above the joys, beyond the woes of life.
Fierce pangs no more thy lively beauty stain,
| And sternly try thee with a year of pain:
No more sweet patience, feigning oft relief,
Lights thy sick eye, to cheat a parent's grief:
With tender art to save her anxious groan,
No more thy bosom presses down its own:
Now well-earn'd peace is thine and bliss sin-
Ours be the lenient, not unpleasing tear!
O! born to bloom, then sink beneath the
storm,
To show us Virtue in her fairest form;
To show us artless Reason's moral reign,
What boastful Science arrogates in vain;
Th' obedient passions, knowing each their part,
Calm light the head, and harmony the heart!
Yes, we must follow soon, will glad obey,
When a few suns have roll'd their cares away;
Tir'd with vain life, will close the willing eye;
'Tis the great birthright of mankind to die.
|