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The Happy Life of a COUNTRY PARSON.

PARSON, these things in thy poffeffing
Are better than the Bishop's bleffing.

A Wife that makes conferves; a Steed
That carries double when there's need:
October ftore, and best Virginia,
Tythe-Pig, and mortuary Guinea:
Gazettes fent gratis down, and frank'd,
For which thy Patron's weekly thank'd;
A large Concordance, bound long fince;
Sermons to Charles the First, when Prince:
A Chronicle of ancient standing;
A Chryfoftom to smooth thy band in.
The Polyglott-three parts,-my text,
Howbeit,-likewife-now to my next.
Lo here the Septuagint,-and Paul,
To fum the whole,-the close of all.

He that has thefe, may pafs his life,
Drink with the 'Squire, and kiss his Wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fill;
And faft on Fridays—if he will;

Toast Church and Queen, explain the News,
Talk with Church-Wardens about Pews,
Pray heartily for fome new Gift,

And shake his head at Doctor Swift.









EAR, damn'd, distracting town, farewell!
Thy fools no more I'll teize:

This year in peace, ye critics, dwell,

Ye harlots, fleep at ease!

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May knock up whores alonę.

To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman toll;
Let Jervais gratis paint, and Frowde
Save three-pence and his foul.

Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery
On every learned fot;

And Garth, the best good christian he,
Although he knows it not.

Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go;

Farewel, unhappy Tonson!

Heaven gives thee, for thy lofs of Rowe,
Lean Philips, and fat Johnson.

Why should I stay? Both parties rage;

My vixen mistress fqualls;

The wits in envious feuds engage;
And Homer (damn him!) calls.

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The love of arts lies cold and dead

In Halifax's urn;

And not one Mufe of all he fed,

Has yct the grace to mourn.

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

Poor Y r's fold for fifty pound,

And B

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

Or follow girls feven hours in eight? –
I need but once a week.

Still idle, with a bufy air,
Deep whimfies to contrive;
The gayeft valetudinaire,
Moft thinking rake alive.

Solicitous for others ends,

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

Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell,
For fober, ftudious days!
And Burlington's delicious meal,
For fallads, tarts, and pease!

Adieu to all but Gay alone,

Whofe foul, fincere and free,

Loves all mankind, but flatters none,

And fo may ftarve with me.



INCE my old friend is grown fo great,
As to be minifter of state,

I'm told (but 'tis not true I hope)
That Craggs will be asham'd of Pope.

CRAGGS. Alas! if I am fuch a creature,

To grow the worse for growing greater;
Why faith, in spite of all my brags,
'Tis Pope must be asham'd of Craggs,


Engraved on the Collar of a Dog, which I gave to his Royal Highness.


Am his Highness' dog at Kew;

Pray tell me, Sir, whose dog are you?



Occafioned by an Invitation to Court.

N the lines that you sent, are the Muses and Graces; You've the Nine in your wit, and the Three in your




WHAT are the falling rills, the pendant shades,

The morning bowers, the evening colonnades,

But foft receffes for th' uneafy mind

Tò figh unheard in, to the passing wind!
So the ftruck deer, in fome fequefter'd part,
Lies down to die (the arrow in his heart)
There hid in fhades, and wafting day by day,
Inly he bleeds, and pants his foul away.

VERSES left by Mr. POPE, on his lying in the same Bed which WILMOT the celebrated Earl of Rochester slept in, at Adderbury, then belonging to the Duke of Argyle, July 9th, 1739.

ITH no poetic ardour fir'd


I prefs the bed where Wilmot lay;

That here he lov'd, or here expir'd,

Begets no numbers grave, or gay.

But in thy roof, Argyle, are bred
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed,
Beneath a nobler roof-the sky.

Such flames as high in patriots burn,

Yet ftoop to bless a child or wife; And fuch as wicked kings may mourn, When freedom is more dear than life.


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