And sell their votes at such a rate,
As will retrieve a loft eftate:
If law be fuch a partial whore,
To spare the rich, and plague the poor:
If these be of all crimes the worst,
What land was ever half fo curst?
UOTH the thief to the dog, let me into your door,
And I'll give you these delicate bits.
Quoth the dog, I fhall then be more villain than you 're,
And befides must be out of my wits.
Your delicate bits will not ferve me a meal,
But my mafter each day gives me bread;
You'll fly, when you get what you came here to steal, And I must be hang'd in your ftead.
The stock-jobber thus from Change-alley goes down,
And tips you the freeman a wink;
Let me have but your vote to ferve for the town,
And here is a guinea to drink.
Says the freeman, your guinea to-night would be spent!
Your offers of bribery cease :
I'll vote for my landlord, to whom I pay rent,
Or else I may forfeit my leafe.
From London they come, filly people to chouse,
Their lands and their faces unknown:
Who'd vote a rogue into the parliament-house,
That would turn a man out of his own?
TO THE GRUB-STREET VERSE-WRITERS.
YE poets ragged and forlorn,
Down from your garrets hafte;
Ye rhymers dead as foon as born,
Not yet confign'd to pafte;
I know a trick to make you thrive ;
O, 'tis a quaint device :
Your ftill-born poems fhall revive,
And fcorn to wrap up spice.
Get all your verses printed fair,
Then let them well be dried;
And Curll must have a fpecial care
To leave the margin wide.
Lend these to paper-fparing* Pope;
And when he fits to write,
No letter with an envelope
Could give him more delight.
When Pope has fill'd the margins round,
Why then recall your loan;
Sell them to Curll for fifty pound,
And fwear they are your own.
*The original copy of Mr. Pope's celebrated tranflation of Homer (preserved in the British Museum) is almost entirely written on the covers of letters, and fometimes between the lines of the letters themselves. N.
Who defired the AUTHOR to write some Verfes
upon her in the Heroic Style.
Written at LONDON in 1726.
FTER venting all my fpite,
Tell me, what have I to write ?
Every error I could find
Through the mazes of your mind,
Have my bufy Mufe employ'd
Till the company was cloy'd.
Are you pofitive and fretful,
Heedlefs, ignorant, forgetful?
Thofe, and twenty follies more,
I have often told before.
Hearken what my lady fays:
Have I nothing then to praife?
Ill it fits you to be witty,
Where a fault should move your pity.
If you think me too conceited,
Or to paffion quickly heated;
If my wandering head be less
Set on reading than on dress;
If I always feem too dull t'ye ;
I can folve the difficulty."
You would teach me to be wife;
Truth and honour how to prize;
How to fhine in converfation,
And with credit fill my station;
VOL. II.
How to relish notions high;
How to live, and how to die.
But t was decreed by Fate-
Mr. Dean, you come too late.
Well I know, you can discern,
I am now too old to learn:
Follies, from my youth inftill'd,
Have my foul entirely fill'd;
In my head and heart they center,
Nor will let your leffons enter.
Bred a fondling and an heiress;
Dreft like any Lady Mayorefs;
Cocker'd by the servants round,
Was too good to touch the ground;
Thought the life of every lady
Should be one continual play-day-
Balls, and mafquerades, and fhows,
Vifits, plays, and powder'd beaux.
Thus you have my cafe at large,
And may now perform your charge.
Thofe materials I have furnish'd,
When by you refin'd and burnish'd,
Muft, that all the world may know 'em,
Be reduc'd into a Poem.
But, I beg, fufpend a while
That fame paultry, burlesque style;
Drop for once your constant rule,
Turning all to ridicule;
Teaching others how to ape you;
Court nor Parliament can 'fcape you;
Treat the publick and your friends
Both alike, while neither mends.
Sing my praise in strain sublime :
Treat me not with doggrel rhyme.
'Tis but juft, you should produce,
With each fault, each fault's excufe;
Not to publish every trifle,
And my few perfections stifle.
With fome gifts at least endow me,
Which my very foes allow me.
Am I fpightful, proud, unjuft?
Did I ever break my trust?
Which of all our modern dames
· Cenfures lefs, or lefs defames?
In good-manners am I faulty?
Can you
call me rude or haughty ?
Did I e'er my mite withhold
From the impotent and old?
When did ever I omit
Due regard for men of wit?
When have I esteem exprefs'd
For a coxcomb gaily dress'd?
Do I, like the female tribe,
Think it wit to fleer and gibe?
Who with lefs defigning ends
Kindlier entertains her friends;
With good words and countenance sprightly,
Strives to treat them more politely?
Think not cards my chief diverfion :
'Tis a wrong, unjuft afperfion
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