WITH Scornful mien, and various toss of air,
Fantastic, vain, and insolently fair,
Grandeur intoxicates her giddy brain,
She looks ambition, and she moves disdain.
Far other carriage graced her virgin life,
But charming Gumley's lost in Pulteney's wife.
Not greater arrogance in him we find,
And this conjunction swells at least her mind:
O could the sire, renowned in glass, produce
One faithful mirror for his daughter's use!
Wherein she might her haughty errors trace,
And by reflection learn to mend her face:
The wonted sweetness to her form restore,
Be what she was, and charm mankind once more!
DEAR, damn'd, distracting town, farewell;
Thy fools no more I'll tease:
This year in peace, ye critics, dwell,
Ye harlots, sleep at ease!
To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman's toll;
Let Jervas gratis paint, and Frowde
Save three-pence and his soul.
Farewell, Arbuthnot's raillery
On every learned sot;
And Garth, the best good Christian he,
Although he knows it not.
Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go;
Farewell, unhappy Tonson!
Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe,
Lean Philips, and fat Johnson.
Why should I stay? Both parties rage;
My vixen mistress squalls;
The wits in envious feuds engage:
And Homer (damn him!) calls.
The love of arts lies cold and dead
In Halifax's urn;
And not one muse of all he fed
Has yet the grace to mourn.
My friends, by turns, my friends confound, Betray, and are betray'd:
-rs sold for fifty pounds,
And B-ll is a jade.
Why make I friendships with the great,
When I no favour seek?
Solicitous for other ends,
Though fond of dear repose;
Careless or drowsy with my friends,
And frolic with my foes.
Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell,
For sober, studious days!
And Burlington's delicious meal,
For salads, tarts, and pease!
Adieu to all but Gay alone,
Whose soul, sincere and free,
Loves all mankind, but flatters none,
And so may starve with me.
THE FOLLOWING LINES WERE SUNG
DURASTANTI, WHEN SHE TOOK HER LEAVE OF THE ENGLISH STAGE.
THE WORDS WERE IN HASTE PUT TOGETHER BY MR. POFE, AT THE
REQUEST OF THE EARL OF PETERBOROUGIL
GENEROUS, gay, and gallant nation,
Bold in arms, and bright in arts;
Land secure from all invasion,
All but Cupid's gentle darts!
From your charms, oh who would run?
Who would leave you for the sun?
Happy soil, adieu, adieu!
Let old charmers yield to new.
In arms, in arts, be still more shining;
All your joys be still increasing;
All your tastes be still refining;
All your jars for ever ceasing:
But let old charmers yield to new:-
Happy soil, adieu, adieu!
UPON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH'S HOUSE AT WOODSTOCK.
Atria longa patent; sed nec cœnantibus usquam,
Nec somno locus est: quàm bene non habitas!
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,
And mark how wide the hall is made!
The chimneys are so well design'd,
They never smoke in any wind.
This gallery's contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber for debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state.
Thanks, sir, cried I, 'tis very fine,
But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dino
I find by all you have been telling,
That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.
ON HIS LYING IN THE SAME BED WHICH WILMOT, THE CELE BRATED EARL OF ROCHESTER, SLEPT IN, AT ADDERBURY, THEN BELONGING TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLE, JULY 9, 1739
WITH no poetic ardour fired
I press the bed where Wilmot lay;
That here he loved, or here expired,
Begets no numbers, grave or gay.
Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed,
Beneath a nobler roof-the sky.
Such flames as high in patriots burn
Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;
And such as wicked kings may mourn,
When freedom is more dear than life.
To the tune of "To all you ladies now at land," &c.
To one fair lady out of court,
And two fair ladies in,
Who think the Turk and Pope a sport,
And wit and love no sin;
Come, these soft lines, with nothing stiff in,
To Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin,
What passes in the dark third row,
And what behind the scene,
Couches and crippled chairs I know,
And garrets hung with green;
I know the swing of sinful hack,
Where many damsels cry alack.
With a fa, la, la.
Then why to courts should I repair,
Where's such ado with Townshend!
To hear each mortal stamp and swear,
And every speech with zounds end;
To hear 'em rail at honest Sunderland,
And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.
With a fa, la, la.
Alas! like Schutz I cannot pun,
Like Grafton court the Germans;
Tell Pickenbourg how slim she's grown,
Like Meadows run to sermons;
To court ambitious men may roam,
But I and Marlbro' stay at home.
With a fa, la, la.
In truth, by what I can discern,
Of courtiers 'twixt you three,
Some wit you have, and more may learn
From court, than Gay or me:
Perhaps, in time, you'll leave high diet,
To sup with us on milk and quiet.
With a fa, la, la.
At Leicester-Fields, a house full high,
With door all painted green,
Where ribbons wave upon the tie,
(A milliner I mean ;)
There may you meet us three to three,
For Gay can well make two of me.
With a fa, la, la.
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