Fir'd by the sight, all reason I disdain,
My passions rise, and will not bear the rain.
Look upon Basset, you who reason boast,
And see if reason must not there be lost.
SMIL. What more than marble must that heart
Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's vows? [compose,
Then, when he trembles! when his blushes rise!
When awful love seems melting in his eyes!
With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves,
He loves---I whisper to myself, He loves!
Such unfeign'd passion in his looks appears,
I lose all mem'ry of my former fears;
My panting heart confesses all his charms,
I yield at once, and sink into his arms.
Think of that moment you who prudence boast;
For such a moment, prudence well were lost.
CARD. At the Groom-porter's batter'd bullies play, Some dukes at Marybone bowl time away; But who the bowl, or rattling dice compares To Basset's heav'nly joys and pleasing cares? SMIL. Soft Simplicetta dotes upon a beau; Prudina likes a man, and laughs at show: Their several graces in my Sharper meet, Strong as the footman, as the master sweet.
LOV. Cease your contention, which has been too
I grow impatient, and the tea's too strong.
Attend, and yield to what I now decide;
The equipage shall grace Smilinda's side;
The Snuff-box to Cardelia I decree.
Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.
Un jour, dit un auteur, &c.
ONCE (says an author, where I need not say)
Two trav'llers found an oyster in their way:
Both fierce, both hungry, the dispute grew strong,
While, scale in hand, Dame Justice pass'd along.
Before her each with clamour pleads the laws,
Explain'd the matter, and would win the cause.
Dame Justice weighing long the doubtful right,
Takes, opens, swallows it, before their sight.
The cause of strife remov'd so rarely well,
There take, (says Justice) take ye each a shell.
We thrive at Westminster on fools like you:
'Twas a fat oyster---live in peace---Adieu.
Answer to the following question of Mrs. Howe.
WHAT is prud'ry?
Seen with wit and beauty seldom.
'Tis a fear that starts at shadows;
'Tis (no, 'tis n't) like Miss Meadows.
'Tis a virgin hard of feature,
Old, and void of all good nature;
Lean and fretful; would seem wise,
Yet plays the fool before she dies.
'Tis an ugly envious shrew
That rails at dear Lapell and you.
Occasioned by some Verses of bis Grace the Duke of
Buckingham.
Muse, 'tis enough, at length thy labour ends,
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends.
Let crowds of critics now my verse assail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail;
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain,
Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain.
Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.
A Prologue by Mr. Pope, to a play for Mr. Dennis's benefii, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great distress, a little before his death.
As when that hero, who in each campaign
Had brav'd the Goths, and many a Vandal slain,
Lay Fortune-struck, a spectacle of wee!
Wept by each friend, forgiv'n by ev'ry foe;
Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting mind,
But pity'd Bellisarius, old and blind?
Was there a chief but melted at the sight?
A common soldier, but who club'd his mite?
Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,
When press'd by want and weakness, Dennis lies;
Dennis! who long had warr'd with modern Huns, 11
Their quibbles routed, and defy'd their puns;
A desp'rate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce,
Against the Gothic sons of frozen verse:
How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan,
And shook the stage with thunders all his own?
Stood up to dash each vain pretender's hope,
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds dragoons, and wooden shoes in scorn; 20
If there's a critic of distinguish'd rage;
If there's a senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his just assistance lend,
And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's, friend.
WHEN Simple Macer, now of high renown,
First sought a poet's fortune in the Town,
'Twas all th' ambition his high soul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele":
Some ends of verse his betters might afford,
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with these he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd play, outdid poor Crown.
There he stop'd short, nor since has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little;
Like stunted hide-bound trees, that just have got,
Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot.
Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends,
Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.
So some coarse country-wench, almost decay'd,
Trudges to Town, and first turns chambermaid:
Awkward and supple each devoir to pay,
She flatters her good lady twice a-day;
Thought wond'rous honest, tho' of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her simplicity:
In a translated suit then tries the Town,
With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own;
But just endur'd the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd Harridan:
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go share with punk.
Song, by a person of quality. Written in the year 1733
FLUTT'RING spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid! o'er my heart;
I a slave in thy dominions:
Nature must give way to Art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming,
All beneath yon' flow'ry rocks.
Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth!
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting tooth.
Cynthia! tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion! string the lyre;
Sooth my ever-waking slumbers:
Bright Apollo! lend thy choir.
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