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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,
Bold in arms, and bright in arts;
Land secure from all invasion,
All but Cupid's gentle darts!

From your charms, oh! who would run?
Who would leave you for the sun?

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:

But let old charmers yield to new:
Happy soil, adieu, adieu !


* 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,
Nec somno locus est: quàm bene non habites!

SEE, Sir, here's the grand approach,

This way is for his Grace's coach;

Mart. Epig.

There lies the bridge, and here's the clock,
Observe the lion and the cock,

The spacious court, the colonnade,

And mark how wide the hall is made!
The chimneys are so well design'd,
They never smoke in any wind.
This gallery's contriv'd for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber for debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state.

Thanks, Sir, cry'd I, 'tis very fine,
But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine?
I find by all you have been telling,
That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.*


* 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.


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

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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,
To Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin.
With a fa, la, la.


What passes in the dark third row,
And what behind the scene,
Couches and crippled chairs I know,
And garrets hung with green;
I know the swing of sinful hack,
Where many damsels cry alack.
With a fa, la, la.

* Ulrick, the little Turk.

†The Author.


Ladies of the Court of the Princess Caroline.


Then why to courts should I repair,
Where's such ado with Townshend?
To hear each mortal stamp and swear,
And ev'ry speech with Zounds end;
To hear 'em rail at honest Sunderland,
And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.*
With a fa, la, la.


Alas! like Schutz I cannot pun,

Like Grafton court the Germans ;
Tell Pickenbourg how slim she's grown,
Like Meadows run to sermons;

To court ambitious men may roam,
But I and Marlbro' stay at home.
With a fa, la, la.


In truth, by what I can discern,
Of courtiers 'twixt you three,
Some wit you have, and more may learn
From court, than Gay or Me:

Perhaps, in time, you'll leave high diet,

To sup

with us on milk and quiet.

With a fa, la, la.


* Ireland.

+ Mentioned before in the verses to Mrs. Howe.

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