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“Or shoots he folly as it flies ?
To you (the all-envied gift of heaven)
What could a tender mother's care
Amidst thy various ebbs of fear,
Ver. 10. Does St. John Greenwich, &c.]
“ An tacitam silvas inter reptare salubres ?" Ver. 13. To you, &c.]
66 Di tibi formam,
Quam sapere, et fari posset quæ sentiat, et cui
non deficiente crumena ?" Ver. 23. Amidst, &c.]
“ Inter spem, curamque, timores inter et iras.”
Yet let thy friend this truth impart,
In spite of fears, of mercy spite, My genius still must rail, and write. Haste to thy Twick'nham's safe retreat, And mingle with the grumbling great; There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find 35 The rhyming bubbler of mankind; There (objects of our mutual hate) We'll ridicule both church and state.
Ver. 28. That every day, &c.]
“Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum.
Me pinguem, et nitidum bene curata cute vises,
[EGBERT SANGER served his apprenticeship with Jacob Tonson, and succeeded Bernard Lintot in his shop at Middle Temple Gate, Fleet-street. Lintot printed Ozell's Translation of Perrault's Characters, and Sanger his translation of Boileau's Lutrin, recommended by Mr. Rowe, anno 1709.]
Ozell, at Sanger's call invoked his muse,
THE LOOKING GLASS.
ON MRS. PULTENEY.
[Anna Maria Gumley, daughter of John Gumley, of Isleworth, was married to Pulteney, who received with her a very large fortune.
Her father gained his fortune by a glass manufactory; upon which circumstance, though hitherto unexplained, the force and elegance of this severe but pleasing composition turns.
These lines were suppressed, as Pope afterwards received great civilities from Pulteney.]
With scornful mien, and various toss of air, ,
A FAREWELL TO LONDON.
Dear, damn'd, distracting town, farewell!
Thy fools no more I'll teaze;
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;
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;
grace to mourn.