"To facrifice Old England's glory, "With horror, grief, defpair, the Dean "Beheld the dire deftructive scene: "His friends in exile, or the Tower, "Himself within the frown of power; "Purfued by base-invenom'd pens, "Far to the land of f- and fens; "A fervile race in folly nurs'd, "Who truckle moft when treated worft,, "By innocence and refolution, "He bore continual perfecution; "While numbers to preferment rofe, "Whofe merit was to be his foes; "When ev'n his own familiar friends, "Intent upon their private ends, "Like renegadoes now he feels "Against him lifting up their heels. "The Dean did, by his pen, defeat "An infamous deftructive cheat; "Taught fools their intereft how to know, "And gave them arms to ward the blow. "Envy hath own'd it was his doing, "To fave that hapless land from ruin; "While they who at the steerage stood, And reap'd the profit, fought his blood. "To fave them from their evil fate, "In him was held a crime of ftate. "A wicked monster on the bench, "Whofe fury blood could never quench; "As vile and profligate a villain, "As modern Scroggs, or old Treflilian; "Who long all juftice had difcarded, "Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded; "Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent, "And make him of his zeal repent. "But Heaven his innocence defends, "The grateful people stand his friends: "Not ftrains of law, nor judges frown, "Nor topics brought to pleafe the crown, "Nor witnefs hir'd, nor jury pick'd, "Prevail to bring him in convict. "In exile, with a steady heart, "He spent his life's declining part; "Where folly, pride, and faction fway, "Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay." "Alas, poor Dean! his only scope "Was to be held a mifanthrope: "This into general odium drew him; "Which if he lik'd, much good may 't do hit. "His zeal was not to lash our crimes, "But difcontent against the times: "For, had we made him timely offers "To raife his post, or fill his coffers, "Perhaps he might have truckled down, "Like other brethren of his gown; "For party he would fcarce have bled :"I fay no more-because he's dead. "What writings has he left behind?" "I hear they're of a different kind: "A few in verfe, but most in profe." "Some high-flown pamphlets, I fuppofe: "All fcribbled in the worst of times, "To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes; "To praife Queen Anne; nay more, defend ha, "As never favouring the Pretender : "Or libels yet conceal'd from fight, 66 Against the court to fhew his fpite: "Perhaps his travels, part the third; "A lye at every fecond word"Offenfive to a loyal car: But not one fermon, you may fwear.” "He knew an hundred pleafing ftories, "With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: "Was cheerful to his dying day; "And friends would let him have his way. "As for his works in verfe or profe, "I own myself no judge of thofe. “Nor can I tell what critics thought them; "But this I know, all people bought them, "As with a moral view defign'd "To please and to reform mankind: "And, if he often mifs'd his aim, "The world muft own it, to their fhame, "The praise is his, and theirs the blame. "He gave the little wealth he had "To build a house for fools and mad; "To fhew, by one fatiric touch, "No nation wanted it fo much. "That kingdom he hath left his debtor, "I wish it foon may have a better. "And, fince you dread no farther lashes, "Methinks you may forgive his afhes.” Well pleas'd, Apollo thither led his train, TH' infpiring mufes, and the god of love, Which moft should grace the fair Melinda S wife... Love arm'd her with his bow and keeneft darts, A Sherlock at Temple was taking a boat, The mufes more enrich'd her mind with arts. Tho' Greece in fhining temples heretofore Did Venus and Minerva's pow'rs adore, The ancients thought no fingle goddess fit To reign at once o'er beauty and o'er wit; Each was a fep'rate claim; till now we find The diff'rent titles in Melinda join'd. AN Opera, like a pill'ry, may be faid L The waterman afk'd him which way he would float; [ftreama Which way I fays the Doctor; why, fool, with the To Paul's or to Lambeth-'twas all one to him. On a Prelate's going out of Church in Time of Divine Service, to wait on the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. LORD Pam in the church (could kneel'd down: you think it?) To nail our Ears down, but expofe our Head. When, told that the Duke was just come to town, UCIA thinks happiness confifts in ftate; She weds an ideot, but the eats in plate. On God's Omnipotence. His ftation defpifing, unaw'd by the place, On an eminent Modern Preacher: On WHEN Egypt's hoft God's chofen tribe pur-POLLIO muft needs to penitence excite; WHEN Chloe's picture was to Chloe fhewn, Blunt and fevere as Manly in the play, For, fee, his fcarf is rich, and gloves are white; The force and reas'ning of his wig and hand: To Mr. Thomfon, who bad procured the Auty a Benefit Night. DENNIS. Reflecting on thy worth, methinks I find Thy various feafons in their author's mind. And, like thy foft compaffion, sheds her dews. her bloffoms, various as thy mule; Spring opes Summer's hot drought in thy expreffion glows, And o'er each page a tawney ripenefs throws. Autumn's rich fruits th' inftructed reader gains, Who taftes the meaning purpose of thy trains. Winter-but that no femblance takes from thee; That hoary feafon yields a type of me. Shatter'd by Time's bleak ftorms I with ring lay, Leatlefs, and whit'ning in a cold decay! Yet thall my proplefs ivy, pale and bent, Blefs the fhort funthine which thy pity lent. Yet, friend, his awaking I very much doubt- out. To Mr. Pope. WHILE malice, Pope, denies thy page While critics and while bards in rage, Admiring, won't admire : But when the world's loud praise is thine, That day (for come it will)-that day Thou feek'ft the tender tear; From cannibals thou fled'ft in vain; The first won't eat you till you're flain, By HACKETT. W HEN Jack was poor, the lad was frank and free; Of late he's grown brimful of pride and pelf; TO John I ow'd great obligation, But John unhappily thought fit To publish it to all the nation. Sure John and I are more than quit. WALLER. FAIR hand, that can on virgin paper write, Yet from the ftain of ink preferve it white; For tho' a painter boughs and leaves can make, A poet, when he would defcribe his mind, On the Burfer of St. John's College in Oxford cut-So far the fciffars goes beyond the pen. EVANS. ting down a fine Row of Trees. INDULGENT nature to each kind bestows A fecret inftinct to difcern its foes: Good Mufic, and bad Dancers. Written on the Bed-chamber Door of Charles II. ROCHESTER. HERE lies our fovereign lord the King, Whose word no man relies on; THAT little patch upon your face By PRIOR. AS afternoon one fummer's day, Venus ftood bathing in a river; Cupid a fhooting went that way, New ftrung his bow, new fill'd his quiver. With skill he chofe his fharpeft dart; With all his might his bow he drew: Swift to his beauteous parent's heart The too well guided arrow flew. I faint! I die! the goddefs cried: O cruel! couldft thou find none other To wreak thy fplcen on, parricide? Like Nero, thou hast flain thy mother. Poor Cupid, fobbing, fcarce could speak; Indeed, Mama, I did not know ye : Alas! how eafy my mistake! I took you for your likeness, Chloe. |