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There late a gay divine, in facred tone
The court arraigning, all thofe types out-shone.,
Thus fome high tory poetafter cries.
To whom a waggish rhymer thus replies.
No types of him, the zanies of that age,
Who fir'd their audience with fanatic rage.
Falfe were their notions of the public weal
Too warm and furious, but fincere their zeal.
No private grandeurs charms allur'd their eyes;
Their fole ambition with the kirk to rise.
With fable cloak, and broad-brim'd hat adorn'd,
They laugh at lawn-fleeves, and a mitre fcorn'd.
Not fo the doctor, who had waited long,
And lowly bow'd amidst the courtly throng:
But difappointed, found affairs of state
Ill-manag'd all; but found it out to late.
As bound in confcience this bold truth to spread,
He calls for vengeance on the primers head.
But why fhould drum ecclefiaftic found
To arms at home, when peace abroad is found?
What can this noife 'gainst wicked courtiers mean?
The learned doctor is not made a dean.
Grubftreet Journal, No 13.
From the KING'S-BENCH PRISON, March 18, 1729.
HAT pleasure, friend, in this moft difmal den, Can you expect from my neglected pen? The pen which has been laid afide, E'er fince I left my bleating flocks: The Notes which once did fmoothly glide, Like gentle THAMES'S copious tide, Sound harsh and dismal as the hollow rocks.
My harp has lay long time unftrung,
Loves flowing numbers quite forgotten are;
Th' ill-fated lovers in defpair,
Who on the willows hung,
Have died without an elegy,
Since I forfook the world and thee;
Nor I their dirges fung.
The muses, whom I courted long,
Forfook me when confin'd;
Nor can I say they did me wrong,
In being thus unkind :
For had they stay'd to grace my fongs,
My fame had been preferv'd;
But they could not redrefs my wrongs,
And must have been with me themselves half starv'd.
There was a time, when plac'd,
'Midft ftore of friends who still my table grac'd,
I feem'd their chief delight.
But now that pleasant fight is feen no more;
They all are fled, but those who too are poor.
A pleafant grateful fight,
When dainty cheer and flowing bowls
With mirth exalted all their fouls,
The very paftors of the church,
Who ftuck moft othodoxly by my ale,
Since that and wine did fail,
Have left me in the lurch:
Perhaps neglect me in their prayers;
Their ghoftly council is not given;
And fince I cannot pay their past'ral cares)
I'm left to guess the way to heaven.
The reader is defired not to find fault with thefe Verses, unless he is certain that under the fame circum ftances he can write better.
Grubftreet Journal, No 15.
HE following copy of VERSES fent by our correfpon
very different Strain from the Epistle of CALISTA to ALTAMONT, it was thought proper to publish them. The author of that epiftle is a latent member of our fociety, and onewho believes the mortality of the foul, and its fameness with the body, as is evident from the two concluding lines :
"Death's the best law to fet the wretched free:
"Death fhall divorce thee from my felf and thee.
The Character of the Lady A---y.
YOUNG, thoughtlefs, gay, unfortunately fair s
Her pride to please, and dreffing all her care ;
With too much kindness, and too little art,
Prone to indulge the dictates of her heart;
Flatter'd, carefs'd, follicited, admir'd;
By women envied, and by men defir'd;
At once from ease, from wealth, from honour torn,,
She fell expos'd to pain, to want, to scorn.
But when her fad difaft'rous tale is told
To the gay young, as lecture by the old;
Let both to kind compaffion mov'd bemoan
Her fudden ruin, while her fault they own:
And fay when by lawless love betray'd,
From the bright path of innocence the ftray'd,
She could not long, deprefs'd with guilt and fhame,,
Survive the death of virtue and of fame.
Grubftreet Journal, No 16.
An Infcription upon the Monument in WESTMINSTER in Memory of the late famous Sir GODFREY KNELLER, Bart. (made by Mr. POPE) is as follows, viz.
NELLER, by heaven, and not a mafter taught;
K Whose art was nature, and whofe pictures thought;
When now too ages, he had fnatch'd from fate
Whate'er was beaut'ous, or whate'er was great ;
Refts crown'd with princes honour, poets lays,
Due to his merit, and brave thirst of praise:
Living, great nature fear'd he might out-vie
Her works; and dying, fears herself, may die.
Grubftreet Journal, N° 18.
ERE lies JOHN COOм,.
A bailiff of the boom;
When he dy'd,
The devil cry'd,
Come, JOHN, come.
ERE lies honeft WILLIAM DAWE,
Altho' an attorney at law:
If he be not bleft
God help the reft.
Grubftreet Journal, No 19.
VERSES on ****
7ITH native charms adorn'd, improv'd by art,
Whatever glads our eyes, or warms our heart;
'Midft the beau-monde to view fublimely plac'd,
With splendid wealth, and noble titles grac'd;
Thus rais'd, thus blest, unfortunate by all,
With bleffings curs'd, and only rais'd to fall:
At once from pleasure, wealth, and honour torn,
Expos'd to pain, neceffity and fcorn.
But when this melancholy tale is told
To the gay young, as lecture by the old ;
Let both to kind compaffion mov'd, bemoan
Her fudden ruin, whilft her fault they own.
Let them recount what deep, what numerous fighs
Sprung from her breast, what torrents drown'd her eyes:
When pale, difhevell'd, proftrate on the floor,
Her fate fhe wail'd, and curs'd her natal hour:
'Twixt glimmering hope perplex'd, and dark despair,
Begg'd that the filent grave might end her care.
The grievous pangs of one fuch difmal day
Whofe years of higheft, fenfual joys out-weigh.
But greater pains fucceed more pungent woe,
When words all fail'd, and tears no more could flow:
When grief unutterable, mute distress,
Which neither thought can form, nor words express,
Raging within, fubdu'd the mortal part,
The vital current stopp'd, and broke her heart,
Lament the fair by lawless love betray,
Who, from the path of honour having stray'd,
Could not, when once difclos'd her guilt and shame,
Survive the death of virtue, and of fame.
O love! O friendship! turn your eyes this way:
This tragic bed, this fcene of death furvey: