« EelmineJätka »
Then bravely, fair dame,
Resume the old claim,
Which to your whole sex does belong;
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
Shall be found out for you,
Who tasting have robb'd the whole tree?
The following Lines were sung by DURASTANTI,* when she took her leave of the English Stage. The words were in haste put together by Mr. POPE, at the request of the Earl of PETERBOROUGH.
GENEROUS, gay, and gallant nation,
All but Cupid's gentle darts!
From your charms, oh! who would run?
Happy soil, adieu, adieu ! Let old charmers yield to new.
In arms, in arts, be still more shining;
All your joys be still encreasing;
All your tastes be still refining;
All your jars for ever ceasing:
• Durastanti was brought to England by Handel to sing at the Opera, 1721. She was so great a favourite at Court, that the King stood godfather to one of her children.
Upon the Duke of MARLBOROUGH's House at
Atria longè patent; sed nec cœnantibus usquam,
SEE, Sir, here's the grand approach,
This way is for his Grace's coach;
The spacious court, the colonnade,
And mark how wide the hall is made!
Thanks, Sir, cry'd I, 'tis very fine,
* The same idea is used by Lord Chesterfield in his Epigram on Burlington-House:
"How well you build, let flatt'ry tell;
And all mankind, how ill you dwell!"
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.
WITH no poetic ardour fir'd
I press the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he lov'd, or here expir'd, Begets no numbers grave, or gay.
Beneath 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,
A COURT BALLAD.
To the Tune of "To all you Ladies now at Land," &c.
To one fair lady out of court,
And two fair ladies in,
Who think the Turk* and Popet a sport,
And wit and love no sin;
Come these soft lines, with nothing stiff in,
What passes in the dark third row,
* Ulrick, the little Turk.
Ladies of the Court of the Princess Caroline.