Sooner shall Major-General cease
To talk of war, and live in peace;
Yourself for goose reject crow-quill,
And for plain Spanish quit Brazil;
Sooner shall Rowe lampoon the Union,
Tydcombe take oaths on the communion;
The Granvilles write their name plain Greenfield,
Nay, Mr. Wycherley see Binfield.

I'm told, you think to take a step, some
Ten miles from town, t'a place call'd Epsom,
To treat those nymphs like yours of Drury,
With-I protest, and I'll assure ye ;

But though from flame to flame you wander,
Beware; your heart's no salamander!
But burnt so long, may soon turn tinder,
And so be fir'd by any cinder-

(-Wench, I'd have said, did rhyme not hinder.)

Should it so prove, yet who'd admire?

'Tis known, a cookmaid roasted Prior,
Lardella fir'd a famous author,

And for a butcher's well fed daughter
Great Dennis roar'd, like ox at slaughter.
(Now if you're weary of my style,
Take out your box of right Brazil,

First lay this paper under, then

Snuff just three times, and read again.)
I had to see you some intent,

But for a curst impediment,

Which spoils full many a good design,
That is to say, the want of coin:

For which, I had resolv'd almost
To raise Tiberius Gracchus' ghost;
To get, by once more murdering Caius,
As much as did Septimuleius;

But who so dear will buy the lead
That lies within a poet's head,
As that which in the hero's pate
Deserv'd of gold an equal weight?

Sir, you're so stiff in your opinion,
I wish you do not turn Socinian;
Or prove reviver of a schism,
By modern wits call'd Quixotism.
What mov'd you, pray, without compelling,
Like Trojan true, to draw for Helen;
Quarrel with Dryden for a strumpet,
(For so she was, as e'er show'd rump, yet
Though I confess, she had much grace,
Especially about the face.)

Virgil, when call'd Pasiphae Virgo

(You say) he'd more good breeding; ergoWell argu'd, faith! Your point you urge As home as ever did Panurge:

And one may say of Dryden too,
(As once you said of you know who)
He had some fancy, and could write;
Was very learn'd, but not polite—
However from my soul I judge

He ne'er, good man, bore Helen grudge,
But lov'd her full as well, it may be,
As e'er he did his own dear Lady.6

6 Dryden married Lady Elizabeth Howard.

You have no cause to take offence, sir,
Zounds, you're as sour as Cato Censor!
Ten times more like him, I profess,
Than I'm like Aristophanes.

To end with news-the best I know,
Is, I've been well a week, or so.
The season of green pease is fled,
And artichokes reign in their stead.
Th' Allies to bomb Toulon prepare;
God save the pretty ladies there!
One of our dogs is dead and gone,
And I, unhappy, left alone!

If you
T'administer on this occasion,

have any consolation

Send it, I pray, by the next post,
Before my sorrow be quite lost.

The twelfth or thirteenth day of July,"

But which I cannot tell

you truly.

A. POPE.

A FAREWELL TO LONDON

IN THE YEAR 1715.

DEAR, damn'd, distracting town, farewell!

Thy fools no more I'll tease:

This year

in peace, ye critics, dwell,

Ye harlots, sleep at ease!

7 1707.

Soft B- -s and rough Cs,1 adieu!
Earl Warwick, make your moan,

The lively H-k and you

May knock up whores alone.

To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman's toll;
Let Jervas 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.

Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go;
Farewell, unhappy Tonson!
Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe3
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.

1 Craggs.

2 Philip Frowde, author of the tragedies of the Fall of Saguntum, and Philotas.

3 When George I. made Rowe one of the land-surveyors of the port of London.

✦ Ambrose Philips, and Charles Johnson the dramatist.

The love of arts lies cold and dead

In Halifax's urn;

And not one muse of all he fed

Has yet the grace to mourn.

My friends, by turns, my friends confound, Betray, and are betray'd:

Poor Y-r's sold for fifty pounds,

Why make I friendships with the great,
When I no favour seek?

Or follow girls seven hours in eight ?—
I need but once a week.

Still idle, with a busy air,
Deep whimsies to contrive;

The gayest valetudinaire,

Most thinking rake alive.

Solicitous for others' ends,

Though fond of dear repose;
Careless or drowsy with my friends,
And frolic with my foes.

Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell
For sober, studious days!
And Burlington's delicious meal,
For salads, tarts, and pease!

5 Eustace Budgell.