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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.
TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE +.
No mortal as yet
But men of discerning
Have thought that in learning,
* 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,
With musty dull rules, Have reading to females deny'd,
So papists refuse
The Bible to use,
(Indeed she was curst)
And sages agree
The laws should decree
Resume the old claim,
And let men receive,
From a second bright Eve, The knowledge of right, and of wrong,
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*.
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.
Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,
Nature ! informer of the poets art,
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,
ON AN OLD GATE,
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.
Sir Han Sloane
Let me alone; Burlington brought me hither.
A FAREWELL TO LONDON,
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;
Save threepence and his soul.
Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery
On every learned Sot;
Although he knows it not.