HEN learning, after the long Gothic night, Fair, o'er the western world, renew'd its light, With arts arising, Sophonisba rose:
The tragic muse, returning, wept her woes.
With her th' 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 have shown,
Britain, by juster title, makes her own.
When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight;
And hers, 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.
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.
* I have been told by Savage, that of the Prologue to Sophonisba, the first part was written by Pope, who could not be persuaded to finish it; and that the concluding lines were written by Mallet.
Nature! informer of the poet's art,
Whose force alone can raise or melt the heart,
Thou art his guide; each passion, every line,
Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine.
Be thou his judge: in ev'ry candid breast,
Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.
HEN simple Macer, now of high renown,
First 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 out did poor Crown.
There he stopp'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 commends,
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 wondrous honest, though 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 shares with punk.
TO MR. JOHN MOORE,
Author of the celebrated Worm-Powder.
OW much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by shows and forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
AH human kind are worms.
Man is a very worm by birth,
Vile, reptile, weak, and vain! A while he crawls upon the earth, Then shrinks to earth again.
That woman is a worm, we find
E'er since our grandame's evil;
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That ancient worm, the devil.
The learn'd themselves we book-worms name,
The blockhead is a slow-worm;
The nymph whose tail is all on flame,
Is aptly term'd a glow-worm.
The fops are painted butterflies,
That flutter for a day;
First from a worm they take their rise,
And in a worm decay.
The flatterer an earwig grows;
Thus worms suits all conditions;
Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaus,
And death-watches physicians.
That statesmen have the worm, is seen
By all their winding play;
Their conscience is a worm within,
That guaws them night and day.
Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,
If thou couldst make, the courtier void
The worm that never dies.
O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free;
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms shall eat ev'n thee.
Our fate thou only canst adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
Ev'n Button's wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.
SONG, BY A PERSON OF QUALITY;
Written in the Year 1733.
FLUTTRING 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 Cypriau 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 Pluto, 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.
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,
Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; 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.
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