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EPIGRAM ON MRS. TOFTS,

A handsome Woman with a fine Voice, but very covetous and proud*.

So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along;

But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride, That the beasts must have starv'd, and the poet have died.

EPIGRAM,

On one who made long Epitaphst.

FRIEND, for your epitaphs I'm griev'd,

still so much is said; One half will never be believ'd,

The other never read.

* This epigram, first printed anonymously in Steele's Collection, and copied in the Miscellanies of Swift and Pope, is ascribed to Pope by sir John Hawkins, in his History of Music.-Mrs. Tofts, who was the daughter of a person in the family of Bishop Burnet, is celebrated as a singer little inferior, either for her voice or manner, to the best Italian women. She lived at the introduction of the opera into this kingdom, and sung in company with Nicolini; but, being ignorant of Italian, chanted her recitative in English, in answer to his Italian; yet the charms of their voices overcame the absurdity.

+ It is not generally known that the person here meant was Dr. Robert Freind, head master of Westminster-school.

TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER,

On his painting for me the Statues of Apollo, Venus, and Hercules.

WHA

WHAT god, what genius, did the pencil move
When Kneller painted these?

'Twas friendship-warm as Phœbus, kind as love,
And strong as Hercules.

A FAREWEL TO LONDON,

In the Year 1715.

DEAR, damn'd, distracting town, farewel!
Thy fools no more I'll tease:

This

year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots sleep at ease!

Soft B*** and rough C*****, adieu!
Earl Warwick make your moan,

The lively H*****k and you

May knock up whores alone.

To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman toll;
Let Jervis gratis paint, and Frowde
Save three-pence and his soul.

Farewel Arbuthnot's raillery

On every learned sot,

And Garth, the best good Christian he,
Although he knows it not.

Lintot, farewel! thy bard must go;

Farewel, 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:
Poor Y***r's sold for fifty pound,
And B******ll is a jade.

Why make I friendships with the great,
When I no favour seek?

Or follow girls seven hours in eight?---
I need but once a week.

Still idle, with a busy air,
Deep whimsies to contrive;
The gayest valetudinaire,
Most thinking rake alive.

Solicitous for others' ends,

Though fond of dear repose;
Careless or drowsy with my friends,
And frolic with my foes.

Luxurious lobster-nights, farewel,
For sober, studious days!
And Burlington's delicious meal,
For sallads, 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.

A DIALOGUE.

Pope. SINCE my old friend is grown 30 great,

As to be minister of state,

I'm told (but 'tis not true I hope)
That Craggs will be asham'd of Pope.

Craggs. Alas! if I am such a creature,

To grow the worse for growing greater;
Why, 'faith, in spite of all my brags,
'Tis Pope must be asham'd of Craggs.

EPIGRAM,

Engraved on the Collar of a Dog, which I gave to his Royal Highness.

I

AM his Highness' dog at Kew;

Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

IN

EPIGRAM,

Occasioned by an Invitation to Court.

the lines that you sent are the muses and graces;

You've the nine in your wit, and the three in your faces.

ON AN OLD GATE,

Erected in Chiswick Gardens.

GATE, how cam'st thou here?

Gate. I was brought from Chelsea last year,
Batter'd with wind and weather.
Inigo Jones put me together.

Sir Hans Sloane

Let me alone:

Burlington brought me hither.
17+2.

WHAT

A FRAGMENT.

are the falling rills, the pendent shades, The morning bowers, the evening colonades,

But soft recesses for th' uneasy mind

To sigh unheard in, to the passing wind!
So the struck deer, in some sequester'd part,
Lies down to die (the arrow in his heart);
There hid in shades, and wasting day by day,
Inly he bleeds, and pants his soul away.

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

WIT

I press'd the bed where Wilmot lay;
That here he lov'd, or here expir'd,
Begets no numbers grave or gay.

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