Who think the Turk' and Pope' a sport,
And wit and love no sin!

Come, these soft lines, with nothing stiff in,
To Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin.

3

4

With a fa, la, la.

II.

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.

III.

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 them rail at honest Sunderland,
And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland."
With a fa, la, la.

IV.

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 Marlborough stay at home.
With a fa, la, la.

V.

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:

1 Ulrick, the little Turk, one of the Turks who came to England with George I.

2 The author.

3 Mary, the youngest daughter of the second Lord Bellenden, after. wards married to the Duke of Argyle.

4 See previous note.

7 See previous note,

5 Another maid of honour,

6 Ireland.

Perhaps, in time, you'll leave high diet,
To sup with us on milk and quiet.
With a fa, la, la.

VI.

At Leicester Fields, a house full high,
With door all painted green,
Where ribbons wave upon the tie,
(A milliner I mean;)

There may you meet us three to three,
For Gay can well make two of me.
With a fa, la, la.

VII.

But should you catch the prudish itch,
And each become a coward,
Bring sometimes with you Lady Rich,1
And sometimes Mrs. Howard;
For virgins, to keep chaste, must go
Abroad with such as are not so.
With a fa, la, la.

VIII.

And thus, fair maids, my ballad ends;
God send the king safe landing;
And make all honest ladies friends
To armies that are standing;
Preserve the limits of those nations,
And take off ladies' limitations.
With a fa, la, la.

TO MRS. MARTHA BLOUNT ON HER

BIRTHDAY.

1723.

Он! be thou blest with all that heaven can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend:

1 Lady Rich was Miss Griffin's sister and a correspondent of Lady M. W. Montagu.

2 He had been to Hanover,

Not with those toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.
With added years if life bring nothing new,
But, like a sieve, let ev'ry blessing through,
Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, some sad reflection more;
Is that a birthday? 'tis alas! too clear,
"Tis but the funeral of the former year.

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
And the gay conscience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear;
Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In some soft dream, or ecstacy of joy,
Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.

LINES TO WINDSOR FOREST.

SENT IN A LETTER TO MARTHA BLOUNT.

ALL hail, once pleasing, once inspiring shade,
Scene of my youthful loves and happy hours!
Where the kind muses met me as I strayed,

And gently pressed my hands, and said, Be ours. Take all thou e'er shalt have, a constant Muse;

At court thou mayst be liked, but nothing gain; Stocks thou mayst buy and sell, but always lose; And love the brightest eyes, but love in vain.

THE THREE GENTLE SHEPHERDS.'

OF gentle Philips will I ever sing,
With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring.
My numbers too for ever will I vary,

With gentle Budgell and with gentle Carey.

Ambrose Philips, the author of the "Pastorals," which Pope ridiculed severely in the "Tatler." He was born 1671, died 1749. Enste

Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill,
With gentle Carey and with gentle Budgell:
Oh! may all gentle bards together place ye,
Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy.
May satire ne'er befool ye, or beknave ye,
And from all wits that have a knack, God save yo

VERSES TO DR. BOLTON,1

IN THE NAME OF MRS. BUTLER'S SPIRIT, LATELY DECEASED

STRIPPED to the naked soul, escaped from clay,
From doubts unfettered, and dissolved in day;
Unwarmed by vanity, unreached by strife,
And all my hopes and fears thrown off with life;,
Why am I charmed by friendship's fond essays
And though unbodied, conscious of thy praise?
Has pride a portion in the parted soul?
Does passion still the firmless mind control?
Can gratitude out-pant the silent breath?
Or a friend's sorrow pierce the gloom of death?
No-'tis a spirit's nobler task of bliss;

That feels the worth it left, in proofs like this;
That not its own applause, but thine approves,
Whose practice praises, and whose virtue loves;
Who liv'st to crown departed friends with fame;
Then dying, late, shalt all thou gav'st reclaim.

TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN."
ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1742.

RESIGNED to live, prepared to die,
With not one sin, but poetry,

This day Tom's fair account has run
(Without a blot) to eighty-one.

Budgell was a clerk of Addison's. He wrote for the "Tatler," "Spectator," and "Guardian:" born 1685, drowned 1736. Henry Carey aiso composed pastorals. He was an excellent musician. His song "Sally in our Alley," is still admired. He died 1743.

1 Dr. Bolton, Dean of Carlisle, lived some time at Twickenham with old Lady Blount. On the death of her mother, Mrs. Butler of Sussex, Dr. Bolton drew up the mother's character, and from thence Pope took occasion to write this Epistle to Dr. Bolton.-Ruff head.

2 Southern was a poet and dramatist. His most popular dramas were "Isabella" and " Oroonoko." He lived long and died rich,

Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
A table, with a cloth of bays;

2

And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
Presents her harp still to his fingers.
The feast, his tow'ring genius marks
In yonder wild goose and the larks!
The mushrooms show his wit was sudden!
And for his judgment, lo, a pudden!
Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout,
And grace, although a bard, devout.
May Tom, whom heaven sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,3
Be every birth-day more a winner,
Digest his thirty thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal and a coach.

[From the Miscellany.]

SANDYS'S GHOST; OR, A PROPER NEW BALLAD ON THE NEW OVID'S

METAMORPHOSES.

AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY.

YE Lords and Commons, men of wit,

And pleasure about town;
Read this ere you translate one bit
Of books of high renown.

1 Mr. Southern was invited to dine on his birthday with this nobleman (Lord Orrery), who had prepared for him the entertainment of which the bill of fare is here set down.- Warburton.

2 The harp is generally wove on the Irish linen; such as table. cloths, &c.-Warburton.

3 This alludes to a story Mr. Southern told of Dryden. When Southern first wrote for the stage, Dryden was so famous for his prologues, that the players would act nothing without that decoration. His usuai price till then had been four guineas: but when Southern came to him for the prologue he had bespoke, Dryden told him he must have six guineas for it; "which (said he), young man, is out of no disrespect to you, but the players have had my goods too cheap." We now look on these prologues with tho same admiration that the virtuosi do on the apothecaries' pots painted by Raphael.-Warburton.

4 George Sandys, an English poet who translated "Ovid"; born 1577, died 1644. Both Dryden and Pope praise him.