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“ Paste we this recreant's name, * So that each pisser-by shall read

And piss against the fame.”
Now God preserve our gracious King,

And grant, his nobles all
May learn this lesson from Duke Nic.

That pride will bave a fall.



IF meagre Gildon draws his venal quill,

I wish the man a dinner, and fit still: If dreadful Dennis raves in furious fret,

I'll answer Dennis when I am in debt. 'Tis hunger, and not malice, makes them print; 5 And who'll wage war with bedlam or the mint ?

SHOULD some more sober critics come abroad, If wrong, I smile ; if right, I kiss the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence ; And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.

10 Commas and points they set exactly right ; And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite: Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd those ribalds, From falhing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds, Who thinks he reads, when he but scans and spells ; 15 A word.catcher, that lives on fyllables. Yet ev'n this creature may some notice claim, Wrapt round and fanctify'd with Shakespear's name. Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms ! VOL. VI.



† This and the four following poems were wrote by Mr Pope.

The thing we know, is neither rich nor rare ;
And wonder how the devil it'got there.

Are others angry? I excuse them too :
Well may they rage; I give them but their due.
Each man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; 25
But each man's secret standard in his mind,
That cafting weight pride adds to emptiness,
This who can gratify for who can guess ?
The wretch * whom pilfer'd paftorals renown,
Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, 30
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
And strains from hard-bound brains fix lines a-year ;
In sense still wanting, tho' he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:
+ Johnson, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, 35
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
And he whose fuftian's so sublimely bad,
| It is not poetry, but prose run mad :
Should modest satire bid all these translate,
And own that nine such poets make a Tate; 40
How would they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!
How would they swear not Congreve's self was fafe!

Peace to all such ! but were there one whose fires A pollo kindled, and fair fame inspires; Bless’d with each talent and each art to please, 45 And born to write, converse, and live with ease : Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne ; View him with scornful, yet with fearful eyes, And hate for arts that caus’d himself to rise ;

Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And without sneering teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;

Philips. + Author of the Victim, and Cobler of Preston.
Verse of Dr Ev.



Alike refery'd to blame, or to commend,
A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers besieg'd,
And so obliging that he ne'er oblig'd;
Who, if two wits on rival themes contest,
Approves of each, but likes the worst the best ;
Like Cato, gives his little fenate laws,
And fits attentive to his own applause;
While wits and templars ev'ry sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise-
What pity, heav'n ! if fuch a man there be ?
Who would not weep, if Addison were he !



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WHEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,

First fought a poet's fortune in the town; 'Twas all th'ambition his great foul could feel, To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steel. Some ends of verse his betters might afford, And

gave the harmless fellow a good word. Set up with these, he ventur'd on the town, And in a borrow'd play outdid poor Crown. There he stopt short, nor since has writ a tittle, But has the wit to make the most of little ; Like stunted hide-bound trees, that just have got Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot.. + Now he begs verfe, and what he gets commends, Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.

So some coarse country-wench, almost decay'd, 15 Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid : Awkward, and supple each devoir to pay, She flatters her good lady twice a day ;

# He requested by public advertisements the aid of the ingeni. ous to make up a miscellany in 1713.


Thought wondrous honest, tho' of mean degree,
And strangely lik’d for her fimplicity :
In a translated suit then tries the town,
With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own ;
But just endur'd the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd harridan.
Now nothing's left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk, 25
To bawd for others, and go Mares with punk.


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SYLVIA my heart in wondrous wise alarm’d

Aw'd without sense, and without beauty charm'd:
But some odd graces and fine flights she had,
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad :
Her tongue still run on credit from her eyes, $

pert than witty, more a wit than wise:
Good-nature, the declar'd it, was her scorn,
Tho''twas by that alone she could be born:
Affronting all, yet fond of a good name;
A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame :
Now coy, and studious in no point to fall,
Now all agog for D-y at a ball :
Now deep in Taylor, and the book of martyrs,
Now drinking citron with his Grace and Charters.

Men, fome to bus’ness, some to pleasure take ; 15
But ev'ry woman's in her soul a rake.
Frail, fev'rish sex! their fit now chills, now burns :
Atheism and fuperftition rule by turns;
And the mere Heathen in her carnal part
Is fill a sad good Christian at her heart.



*HO' Artemisia talks, by fits,

Of councils, claslics, fathers, wits ;
Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke ::
Yet in some things, methinks, he fails ;
'Twere well, if she would pare her nails,

And wear a cleaner smock.


Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride,
Such nastiness, and so much pride

Are oddly join'd by fate :
On her large quab you find her spread,
Like a fat corpse upon a bed,

That lies and stinks in ftate.

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She wears no colours (sign of grace)
On any part, except her face ;

All white and black beside :
Dauntless her look, her gesture proud,
Her voice theatrically loud,

And masculine her stride.



So have I feen, in black and white,
A prating thing, a magpye hight,

Majestically stalk;
A stately, worthless animal,
That plies the tongue, and wags the tail,

All Autter, pride, and talk.

* P H R Y N E.

PHRYNE had talents for mankind;

Open she was, and unconfin’d,
Like some free port of trade :

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