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Upon the DUKE of MARLBOROUGH's House at Woodstock.
Atria longe patent; sed nec cœnantibus usquam,
SEE, Sir, here's the grand approach, This way is for his Grace's coach; There lies the bridge, and here's the clock, Observe the lion and the cock,
The spacious court, the colonnade,
Thanks, Sir, cry'd I, 'tis very fine, But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine? I find by all you have been telling, That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.
The Fourth Epistle of the First Book of HORACE'S
SAY, St. John, who alone peruse
AD ALBIUM TIBULLUM.
Albi, nostrorum sermonum candide judex,
The Fourth Epistle] This satire on Lord Bolingbroke, and the praise bestowed on him in a letter to Mr. Richardson, where Mr. Pope says,
"Their sons shall blush their fathers were his foes ;"
being so contradictory, probably occasioned the former to be suppressed.
Ver. 1. Say, &c.]
Ver. 10. Does St. John Greenwich, &c.]
"An tacitum silvas inter reptare salubres ?"
To you (th' all-envied gift of Heav'n)
What could a tender mother's care
Amidst thy various ebbs of fear;
Ver. 13. To you, &c.]
"Dî tibi formam, Dî tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi." Ver. 17. What could, &c.]
"Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno,
Ver. 23. Amidst, &c.]
"Inter spem, curamque, timores inter et iras." Ver. 28. That ev'ry day, &c.]
"Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum.
That ev'ry hour
In spite of fears, of mercy spite,
There (objects of our mutual hate)
We'll ridicule both church and state.
A Fragment, attributed by some to MR. POPE, and by others to MR. CONGREVE. It has, however, been seen in the hand-writing of the former.
WHAT are the falling rills, the pendant shades, The morning bow'rs, the evening colonnades, But soft recesses for th' uneasy mind
To sigh unheard in, to the passing wind!
Verses left by MR. POPE, on his lying in the same Bed which WILMOT, the celebrated EARL of ROCHESTER, slept in, at Adderbury, then belonging to the DUKE of ARGYLE, July 9th, 1739.
WITH no poetic ardour fir'd
But in thy roof, Argyle, are bred
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Such flames as high in patriots burn,