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 you 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. ROWE.

WHAT is prud'ry?

'Tis a beldam,

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 Lepell and you.

Occasioned by some Verses of

HIS 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 rails

This more than pays whole years of thankless pain,
Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain.
Sheffield approves, consenting Phœbus bends,
And I and malice from this hour are friends.

PROLOGUE BY MR. POPE,

To a Play for Mr. Dennis's Benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great Distress, a little before his Death.

S when that hero, who in each campaign

As

Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal slain, Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe! Wept by each friend, forgiv'n by ev'ry foe: Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting mind, But pitied Belisarius old and blind? Was there a chief but melted at the sight? A common soldier, but who clubb'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, 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 thunder 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; 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.

PROLOGUE TO SOPHONISBA.

By Pope and Mallet*.

HEN learning, after the long Gothic night,

WH

Fair, o'er the western world, renew'd its light, With arts arising, Sophonisba rose:

The tragic muse, returning, wept her woes.
With her th' Italian scene first learn'd to glow;
And the first tears for her were taught to flow.
Her charms the Gallic muses next inspir'd:
Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fir'd.

What foreign theatres with pride have shown,
Britain, by juster title, makes her own.
When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight;
And hers, when freedom is the theme, to write.
For this a British author bids again

The heroine rise, to grace the British scene.
Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame:
She asks, what bosom has not felt the same?
Asks of the British youth--Is silence there?
She dares to ask it of the British fair.

To-night our home-spun author would be true,
At once, to nature, history, and you.

Well-pleas'd to give our neighbours due applause,
He owns their learning, but disdains their laws.
Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,
'Tis to his British heart he trusts for fame.
If France excel him in one free-born thought,
The man, as well as poet, is in fault.

* I have been told by Savage, that of the Prologue to Sophonisba, the first part was written by Pope, who could not be persuaded to finish it; and that the concluding lines were written by Mallet.

Dr. Johnson.

Nature! informer of the poet's art,
Whose force alone can raise or melt the heart,
Thou art his guide; each passion, every line,
Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine.
Be thou his judge: in ev'ry candid breast,
Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.

WH

MACER:-A CHARACTER.

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 out did poor Crown. There he stopp'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 wondrous honest, though 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 shares with punk.

TO MR. JOHN MOORE,

Author of the celebrated Worm-Powder.

HOW much, egregious Moore, are we

Deceiv'd by shows and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All human kind are worms.

Man is a very worm by birth,
Vile, reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.

That woman is a worm, we find

E'er since our grandame's evil;
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That ancient worm, the devil.

The learn'd themselves we book-worms name,
The blockhead is a slow-worm;

The nymph whose tail is all on flame,

Is aptly term'd a glow-worm.

The fops are painted butterflies,

That flutter for a day;

First from a worm they take their rise,

And in a worm decay.

The flatterer an earwig grows;

Thus worms suits all conditions;
Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaus,
And death-watches physicians.

That statesmen have the worm, is seen

By all their winding play ;

Their conscience is a worm within,

That gnaws them night and day.