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Yet, let thy friend this truth impart, A truth I tell with bleeding heart; (In justice for your labors past) That every day shall be your last, * That every hour, your life renew, Is to your injur'd country due. In spite of fears, of mercy, spite, My genius still must rail, and write. Haste to thy Twickenham's safe retreat, And mingle with the grumbling great, 'There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find The rhyming bubbler of mankind; There (objects of our mutual hate) We'll ridicule both church and state.


In beauty or wit,

No mortal as yet
To question your empire has dar'd ;'

But men of discerning

Have thought that in learning,
To yield to a lady was hard.

* Omnem crede diem tibi dilucisse supremum, Me pinguem, et nitidum bene curata cute vises, Cum ridere voles Epicuri di grege porcum.

+ This panegyric on Lady M. W. Montague might have been uppressed by Mr. Pope, on account of her having satirized vim in her verses to the imitator of Horace; which abuse he eturned in the first satire of the second book of Horace.

From furious, Sappho scarce a milder fate,
P-d by her love, or libell'd by her hate.

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Impertinent schools

With musty dull rules, Have reading to females deny'd,

So papists refuse

The Bible to use,
Lest flocks should be wise as their guides.

'Twas a woman at first

(Indeed she was curst)
In knowledge that tasted delight,

And sages agree

The laws should decree
To the first of possessors the right,

Then bravely, fair dame,

Resume the old claim,
Which to your whole sex does belong;

And let men receive,

From a second bright Eve, The knowledge of right, and of wrong,

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But if the first Eve

Hard doom did receive, When only one apple had she,

What a punishment new,

Shallbe found out for you, Who tasting, have robb’d the whole tree,


By Pope and Mallet*.
W hen Learning after the long Gothic night
Fair o'er the western world, resum'd its light
With wits arising, Sophonisba rose ;
The Tragic Muse, returning, wept her woes.
With her the Italian scene first learn'd to glow,
And the first tears for her were taught to flow,
Her charms the Gallic Muses next inspir'd,
Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fir’d.

What foreign theatres with pride havo-shewn, Britain by juster title, makes her own. When Freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight, And her's, when Freedom is the theme, to write. For this a British author bids again The heroine rise, to grace the British scene. Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame : She asks, what bosom has not felt the same? Asks of the British youth-Is silence there? She dares to ask it of the British fair.

To night, our home-spun author would be true, At once, to nature, history, and you. Well pleas'd to give our neighbours due applause, He owns their learning, but disdains their laws. * I have been told by Savage, that of the Prologue to Sopho

nisba, the first part was written by Pope, who could not be persuaded to finish it, and that the concluding lines wert written by Mallet.

Dr. Johnson.

Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,
'Tis to his British heart he trusts for fame.
If France excel him in one free-born thought,
The man, as well as poet, is in fault.

Nature ! informer of the poets art,
Whose form alone can raise or melt the heart,
Thou artless guide ; each passion, ev'ry line,
Whate'er he draws' to please, must all be thine.
Be thou his judge: in every candid breast,
Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.

DIALOGUE. Pope.-Since my old friend is grown so 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 braggs,
'Tis Pope must be asham’d of Craggs.


Erected in Chiswick Gardens. O 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 Han Sloane

Let me alone; Burlington brought me hither.



Written in the Year 1715. Dear damn’d distracting town farewell!

Thy fools no more I'll teaze ; 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 w-hmes alone.

To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd

Till the third watchman toll;
Let Jervais gratis paint, and Frowde

Save threepence and his soul.

Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery

On every learned Sot;
And Garth, the best good christian he,

Although he knows it not.

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