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 Yr's fold for fifty pound,

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 busy air,
Deep whimsies 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 starve with me.

POPE.

A DIALOGUE.

IN CE my old friend is

SIN

As to be minister 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 fpite of all my brags,
'Tis Pope must be asham'd of Craggs.

EPIGRAM.

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

I

Am his Highness' dog at Kew;

Pray tell me, Sir, whose dog are you?

EPIGRAM.

Occafioned by an Invitation to Court.

IN the lines that you fent, are the Mufes and Graces; You've the Nine in your wit, and the Three in your

faces.

A FRAG

A FRAGMENT.

WHAT are the falling rills, the pendant fhades,

The morning bowers, the evening colonnades,

But foft recesses for th' uneafy mind

To figh unheard in, to the paffing wind!

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

VERSES left by Mr. POPE, on his lying in the fame 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

WI

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

CON

31

36

40

WINTER, the fourth Pastoral,

MESSIAH, a Sacred Eclogue in imitation of Virgil's

Pollio,

WINDSOR-FOREST,

Ode on St. Cecilia's Day,

Two Choruses to the Tragedy of Brutus,

Ode on Solitude,

The dying Chriftian to his Soul,

Effay on Criticism,

The Rape of the Lock,

47

57

77

82

85

86

91

127

157

160

162

164

183

201

JANUARY

Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady,

Prologue to Mr. Addison's Tragedy of Cato,

Epilogue to Jane Shore,

SAPPHO to PHAON, an Epiftle from Ovid,
ELOISA to ABELARD, an Epiftle,

The TEMPLE of FAME,

WALLER, of a Lady finging to her Lute,

346

SWIFT, the Happy Life of a Country Parson,

354