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Occasioned by some Verses of his Grace the Duke of

MUSE, 'tis enough, at length thy labour ends,
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends.
Let crowds of critics now my verse assail,

Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail;
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain,
Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain.
Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.

A Prologue by Mr. Pope, to a play for Mr. Dennis's benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great distress, a little before his death.

As when that hero, who in each campaign

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Had brav'd the Goths, and many a Vandal slain,
Lay Fortune-struck, a spectacle of wce!
Wept by each friend, forgiv'n by ev'ry foe;
Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting mind,
But pity'd Bellisarius, old and blind?
Was there a chief but melted at the sight?
A common soldier, but who club'd his mite?
Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,
When press'd by want and weakness, Dennis lies;
Dennis! who long had warr'd with modern Huns, 11
Their quibbles routed, and defy'd their puns;
A desp'rate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce,
Against the Gothic sons of frozen verse:

How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan,
And shook the stage with thunders all his own!
Stood up to dash each vain pretender's hope,
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds dragoons, and wooden shoes in scorn;
If there's a critic of distinguish'd rage;

If there's a senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his just assistance lend,
And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's, friend.



HEN simple Macer, now of high renown,
Firs' sought a poet's fortune in the Town,
'Twas all th' ambition his high soul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele:
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 with a borrow'd play, outdid poor Crown.
There he stop'd 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 sap at once to bear and rot.

Now he begs verse, and what he gets cammends,
Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.

So some coarse country-wench, almost decay'd,
Trudges to Town, and first turns chambermaid:
Awkward and supple each devoir to pay,

She flatters her good lady twice a-day;






Thought wond'rous honest, tho' of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her simplicity:

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 left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go share with punk.

Song, by a person of quality. Written in the year 1733


FLUTT'RING spread thy purple pinions,

Gentle Cupid! o'er my heart;
I a slave in thy dominions:
Nature must give way to Art.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming,
All beneath yon' flow'ry rocks.


Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth!
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting tooth.


Cynthia! tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion! string the lyre;

Sooth my ever-waking slumbers:
Bright Apollo! lend thy choir.







Gloomy Plute! king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Wat'ring soft Elysian plains.


Mournful Cypress, verdant Willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows;
Morpheus hov'ring o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.


Melancholy smooth Mæander,

Swiftly purling in a round,

On thy margin lovers wander,

With thy flow'ry chaplets crown'd.


Thus when Philomela drooping,

Softly seeks her silent mate,

See the bird of Juno stooping;

Melody resigns to Fate.

On a certain Lady at Court.

I know the thing that's most uncommon;

(Envy be silent and attend!)

I know a reasonable Woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend.




Not warp'd by passion, aw'd by rumour,

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Not grave thro' pride, nor gay thro' foily,

An equal mixture of good humour,

And sensible soft melancholy.

"Has she no faults then, (Envy says) Sir?"
Yes, she has one, I must aver;

When all the world conspires to praise her,
The Woman's deaf, and does not hear.


On bis Grotto at Twickenham, composed of marbles, spars, gems, ores, and minerals.

THOU who shalt stop where Thames' translucent


Shines a broad mirror through the shady cave;
Where ling'ring drops from min'ral roofs distil,
And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill;
Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow,
And latent metals innocently glow;
Approach. Great Nature studiously behold!
And eye the mine, without a wish for gold.


Approach; but awful! lo! th' Ægerian Grot,
Where, nobly pensive, St. John sat and thought; 10
Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole,
And the bright flame was shot thro' Marchmont's soul.
Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor,
Who dare to love their country, and be poor.


On receiving from the Right Hon. the Lady Frances Shirley, a standish and two pens.

YES, I beheld th' Athenian Queen

Descend in all her sober charms; "And take," she said, and smil'd serene, "Take at this hand, celestial arms.

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