Have you feen a rocket fly?

You would fwear it pierc'd the sky:

It but reach'd the middle air,
Burfting into pieces there:
Thoufand fparkles falling down
Light on many a coxcomb's crown:
See what mirth the fport creates ;
Siages hair, but breaks no pates.
Thus, fhould I attempt to climb,
Treat you in a style fublime,
Such a rocket is my Mufe:
Should I lorty numbers choose,
Ere I reach'd ParnaTus' top,
I should burft, and burfting drop;
All my fire would fall in fcraps;
Give your head fome gentle raps;
Only make it fmart awhile:
Then could I forbear to fmile,
When I found the tingling pain
Entering warm your frigid brain;
Make you able upon fight

To decide of wrong and right;

Talk with fenfe whate'er you please on; Learn to relish truth and reafon?

Thus we both fhall gain our prize; I to laugh, and you grow wife.

A YOUNG LADY'S COMPLAINT,

FOR

The Stay of the DEAN in ENGLAND.

1726,

B Gently fill the iwelling fails.

LOW, ye Zephyrs, gentle gales;

Neptune, with thy trident long,
Trident three-fork'd, trident ftrong;
And ye Nereids fair and gay,
Fairer than the rofe in May,
Nereids living in deep caves,
Gently wad with gentle waves;
Nereids, Neptune, lull asleep
Ruffling forms, and ruffied deep;
All around, in pompous ftate,
On this richer Argo wait :
Argo, bring my Golden Fleece ;
Argo, bring him to his Greece.
Will Calenus longer ftay?
Come, Cadenus, come away;
Come with all the hafte of love,
Come unto thy turtle-dove.
The ripen'd cherry on the tree
Hangs, and only hangs for thee;
Lufcious peaches, mellow pears,
Ceres with her yellow ears,
And the grape, both red and white,
Grape infpiring juft delight ;
All are ripe, and courting fue
To be plucked and prefed by you.
Picks have loft their blooming red,
Mourning hang their drooping head;

Every flower languid feems,
Wants the colour of thy beams,
Beams of wondrous force and power,
Beams reviving every flower.
Come, Cadenus, bleis once more,
Blefs again thy native fore;
Blefs again this drooping ifle,
Make its weeping beauties fmile,
Beauties that thine abfence mourn,
Beauties withing thy return.

Come, Cadenus, come with hafe,
Come before the winter's blafi;
Swifter than the lightning fy;
Cr I, like Vaneffa, die.

A LETTER TO THE DEAN,

WHEN IN ENGLAND. 1726. CU will excufe me, I fuppofe, For fending rhyme instead of profe, Because hot weather makes me lazy; To write in metre is more easy.

While you are trudging London town, I'm trolling Dublin up and down; While you converfe with lords and dukes, I have their betters here, my books: Fix'd in an elbow-chair at ease, I choofe companions as I please. I'd rather have one fingle shelf Than all my friends, except yourself; For, after all that can be faid, Our beft acquaintance are the dead. While you're in raptures with Faustina*; I'm charm'd at home with our Sheclina. While you are ftarving there in ftate, I'm cramming here with butchers meat. You fay, when with thofe lords you dine, They treat you with the beft of wine, Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay; Why fo can we, as well as they. No reafon then, my dear good Dean, But you fhould travel home again. What though you may n't in Ireland hope To find fuch folk as Gay and Pope; If you with rhymers here would fhare But half the wit that you can fpare, I'd lay twelve eggs, that, in twelve days, You'd make a dozen o. Popes and Gays.

Our weather 's good, our iky is clear; We 've every joy, if you were here; So lofty and fo bright a ky Was never feen by Ireland's eye! I think it fit to let you know, This week I fhall to Quilca go; To fee M Fayden's horny brothers Firft fuck, and after bull their mothers; To fee, alas! my wither'd trees! To fee what all the country fees! My ftunted quicks, my famifh'd beeves, My fervants fuch a pack of thieves;

* Signora Fauftina, a famous Italian finger.

My fhatter'd firs, my blafted oaks,
My houfe in common to all folks;
No cabbage for a single snail,

My turnips, carrots, parfaips, fail;

My no green peas, my few green sprouts ;
My mother always in the pouts ;
My horfes rid, or gone altray;
My fit all ftoln, or run away;
My mutton lean, my pullets old,
My poultry ftary'd, the corn all fold.

A man, come now from Quilca, fays,
"They've toln the locks from all your keys
But, what muft fret and vex me more,
He fays, "They stole they keys before.

They've tol'n the knives from all the forks; "And half the cows from half the fturks." Nay more, the tellow fwears and vows, "They've ftol'n the fturks from hali the cows:" With many more accounts of woe. Yet, though the devil be there, I'll go : 'Twixt you and me, the realon's clear, Because I've more vexation here.

Though fome, we find, are more difcreet, Before the world are wondrous fweet,

And let their hufbands hector: But, when the world's afleep, they wake, That is the time they choose to speak; Witnefs the curtain-lecture.

Have done! have done! I quit the field;
To you, as to my wife, I yield:

As fhe mult wear the breeches;
So fhall you wear the laurel-crown,
Win it, and wear it, 'tis your own;
The poet's only riches.

G

PALINO DIA. HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XVI. REAT Sir, than Phoebus more divine, Whofe verfes far his rays out-fhine, Look down upon your quondam foe; Oh! let me never write again, If e'er I difoblige you, Dean,

Should you compaffion show.
Take thofe Iambicks which I wrote,
When anger made me piping hot,

And give them to your cook,
To finge your fowl, or fave your paste,
The next time when you have a feaft;
They'll fave you many a book.
To burn them, you are not content;
I give you then my free confent;

To fink them in the harbour:
If not, they'll ferve to fet off blocks,
To roll on pipes, and twift in locks :
So give them to your barber.
Or, when you next your phyfick take,
I muft intreat you thea to make

A proper application;
'Tis what I've done myself before,

With Dan's fine thoughts, and many more,
Who gave me provocation.

What cannot mighty anger do?
It makes the weak the ftrong purfue,
A goofe attack a swan;

It makes a woman, tooth and nail,
Her husband's hands and face affail,
While he 's no longer mar.

* They is the grand thief of the county of Cavan; for whatever is Holen, if you enquire of a fervant about it, the answer is, "They have folen it? FAULKNER.

BEC'S BIRTH-DAY.

November 8, 1726.

HIS day, dear Bec, is thy nativity;

THIS

Had Fate a luckier one, the 'd give it ye
She chofe a thread of greatest length,
And doubly twisted it for ftrength;
Nor will be able with her fhears
To cut it off these forty years.
Then who fays care will kill a cat?
Rebecca fhews they 're out in that.
For fhe, though over-run with care,
Continues healthy, fat, and fair.

As, if the gout fhould feize the head,
Doctors pronounce the patient dead;
But, if they can, by all their arts,
Eject it to th' extremeft parts,
They give the fick man joy, and praise
The gout, that will prolong his days;
Rebecca thus I gladly greet,

Who drives her cares to hands and feet
For, though philofophers maintain
The limbs are guided by the brain,
Quite contrary Rebecca's led.
Her hands and feet conduct her head,
By arbitrary power convey her;
She ne'er confiders why, or where:

Her hands may meddle, feet may wander,
Her head is but a mere by-ftander;
And all her buftling but supplies
The part of wholfome exercife.
Thus nature hath refolv'd to
pay her
The cat's nine lives, and eke the care.
Long may fhe live, and help her friends
Whenever it fuits her private ends;
Till coffee has her ftomach lin❜d:
Domestic bufiness never mind
But, when her breakfast gives her courage,
Then think on Stella's chicken-porridge;

I mean when Tiger* has been ferv'd,
Or elfe poor Stella may be ftarv'd.

May Bec have many an evening nap,
With Figer flabbering in her lap;
But always take a special care
She does not overfet the chair!
Still be the curious, never hearken
To any speech but Tiger's barking!

And when the 's in another fcene,
Stella long dead, but first the Dean,
May fortune and her coffee get her
Companions that may please her better!
Whole afternoons will it beside her,
Nor for neglects or blunders chide her,
A goodly fet as can be found
Of hearty goffips prating round;
Fresh from a wedding or a chriftening,
To teach her ears the art of listening.
And please her more to hear them tattle,
Than the Dean ftorm, or Stella rattle.

Late be her death, one gentle nod,
When Hermes, waiting with his rod,
Shall to Elyfan fields invite her,

Where there shall be no cares to fright her!

EPIGRAMS ON WINDOWS.
MOST OF THEM WRITTEN IN 1726.

I. On a Window at an INN.

WE fly from luxury and wealth,

To hardships, in purfuit of health; From generous wines and coftly fare, And dofing in an easy chair; Pursue the Goddefs Health in vain, To find her in a country scene, And every where her footsteps trace, And fee her marks in every face; And fill her favourites we meet, Crouding the roads with naked feet, But, oh! fo faintly we purfue, We ne'er can have her in full view.

II. At an INN in ENGLAND. THE glafs, by lovers nonfenfe blurr'd,

Dims and obfcures our fight:
So when our paffions Love hath stirr'd,
It darkens Reason's light.

Mrs. Dingley's favourite lap-dog.

TO JANUS, ON NEW-YEAR'S-DAY.
WO-fac'd Janus, god of Time!
Be my Phœbus while I rhyme;
To oblige your crony Swift,
Bring our dame a new-year's-gift:
She has got but half a face:
Janus, fince thou haft a brace,
To my lady once be kind;
Give her half thy face behind.

God of Time, if you be wife,
Look not with your future eyes;
What imports thy forward fight?
Well, if you could lofe it quite.
Can you take delight in viewing
This poor *Ifle's approaching ruin,
When thy retrospection vaft
Sees the glorious ages paft?
Happy nation, were we blind,
Or had only eyes behind!

Drown your morals, madam cries,
I'll have none but forward eyes;
Prudes decay'd about may tack,
Strain their necks with looking back.
Give me Time when coming on:
Who regards him when he 's gone?
By the Dean though gravely told,
New years help to make me old;
Yet I find a new year's lace
Burnishes an old year's face:
Give me velvet and quadrille.
I'll have youth and beauty still.

*Ireland,

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE, Written after the News of the King's Death

RICHMOND-LODGE is a houfe with a small park belonging to the Crown. It was ufually gract ed by the Crown for a leafe of years. The Duke of Ormond was the laft who had it. After his exile, it was given to the Prince of Wales by the King. The Prince and Princefs ufually paffed their fummer there. It is within a mile of Richmond.

MARPLE-HILL is a house built by Mrs. Howard, then of the bed-chamber, now Countefs of Suffolk, and groom of the ftole to the Queen. It is on the Middlefex fide, near Twickenham, where Mr. Pope lived, and about two miles from Richmond-lodge. Mr. Pope was the contriver of the gardens, Lord Herbert the architect, the Dean of St. Patrick's chief butler and keeper of the Ice-house. Upon King George's death, thefe two houfes met, and had the following Dialogue.

N fpite of Pope, in spite of Gay, And all that he or they can fay, Sing on I muft, and fing I will Of Richmond-lodge and Marble-hill. Laft Friday night, as neighbours ufe, This couple met to talk of news: For by old proverbs it appears, That walls have tongues, and hedges ears,

MARBLE-HILL.

Quoth Marble-hill, right well I ween, Your mistress now is grown a queen: You'll find it foon by woeful proof; She'll come no more beneath your roof.

RICHMOND-LODGE.

The kingly prophet well evinces, That we fhould put no truft in princes: My royal mafter promis'd me To raife me to a high degree;

But he 's now grown a king, God wot,

I fear I fhall be foon forgot.

You fee, when folks have got their ends,
How quickly they neglect their friends;
Yet I may fay, 'twixt me and you,
Pray God, they now may find as true!

George I, who died after a fhort fickness by cating a meler, at Ofnaburg, in his way to Hanover, June 11, 1727-The poem was carried to court, and read to King George 11, and Queen Coralire,

MARBLE-HILL.

My houfe was built but for a fhow,
My lady's empty pockets know;
And now the will not have a filling,
To raise the stairs, or build the cieling;
For all the conrtly madams round
Now pay four fillings in the pound :
'Tis come to what I always thought;
My dame is hardly worth a groat.
Had you and I been courtiers born,

We thould not thus have lain forlorn :
For those we dextrous courtiers call,
Can rife upon their mafters' fall;
But we, unlucky and unwife,
Muft fall because our masters rise.

Here wont the Dean, when he 's to feek; To fpunge a breakfast once a week; To cry the bread was ftale, and mutter Complaints against the royal butter. But now I fear it will be faid, No butter flicks upon his bread. We foon fall find him full of spleen, For want of tattling to the queen; Stunning her royal ears with talking; His reverence and her highress walking: Whilft lady Charlotte*, like a stroller, Sits mounted on the garden-roller. A goodly fight to fee her ride With ancient Mirmont at her fide. In velvet cap his head lies warm; His hat for fhow beneath his arm.

MARBLE-HILL.

Some South-Sca broker from the city Will purchase me, the more's the pity; Lay all my fine plantations wafte, To fit them to his vulgar taste: -Chang'd for the worfe in every part, My mafter Pope will break his heart.

Lady Charlette de Reuffy, a French lady. Marquis de Mirmont, a French man of quality.

Then let him come and take a nap
In fummer on my verdant lap;
Prefer our villas, where the Thames is,
To Kenfington, or hot St. James's:
Nor frall I dull in filerce Lt;
For 'tis to me he owes his wit;
My groves, my echoes, and my birds,
Have taught him his poetic words.
We gardens, and you wilderneffes,
Affift all poets in diftreffes.
Him twice a week I here expect,
To rattle Moody* for neglect;

An idle rogue, who spends his quartridge
In tippling at the Dog and partridge,
And I can hardly get him down
Three times a week to brush my gown.

RICHMOND-LODGE.

I pity you, dear Marble-hili;

But hope to fee you flourish ftill.
All happiness and so adieu.

MARBLE-HILL.

Kind Richmond-lodge, the fame to you.

DESIRE AND POSSESSION.

'TIS

1727.

IS strange, what different thoughts infpire
In men, Poffeffion and Dei re!
Think what they with fo great a blessing;
So difappointed when poffeffing!

A moralift profoundly fage
(I know not in what book or page,
Or whether o'er a pot of ale)
Related thus the following tale,

Poffeffion, and Defre his brother,
But ftill at variance with each other,
Were feen contending in a race;
And kept at firft an equal pace:
'Tis faid their courfe continued long;
For this was active, that was ftrong:
Till Envy, Slander, Sloth, and Doubt,
Mifled them many a league about.
Seduc'd by fome deceiving light,
They take the wrong way for the right;
Through flippery by-roads dark and deep,
They often climb, and often creep.
*The gardener.