Ab, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,

And greater gain would rise,
If thou couldst make the courtier void

The worm that never dies,
O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,

Who sett'st our entrails free;
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,

Since worms shall eat ev’n thee.
Our fate thou only capst adjoura

Some few short years, no more!
Ev'n Button's wits to worms shall turn,

Who maggots were before.

SONG, BY A PERSON OF QUALITY;

Written in the Year 1733.

FLUTTRING 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 uumbers;

Fair discretion, string the lyre; Sooth my ever-waking slumbers: Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,

Arm'd in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors,

Wat'ring soft Elysian plains. Mournful cypress, verdant willow,

Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus hov'ring o'er my pillow,

Hear me pay my dying vows. Melancholy smooth Mæander,

Swiftly púrling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander,

With thy flow'ry chaplets crown'd. Thus when Philomela drooping,

Softly seeks her silent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping ;

Melody resigns to fate.

ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT.

I KNOW the thing that's most uncommon;.

(Envy, be silent and attend !) I knew a reasonable woman,

Handsome and witty, yet a friend. Not warp'd by passion, aw'd by rumour,

Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; An equal mixture of good-humour,

And sensible soft melancholy.
• Has she no faults, then,' envy says, “şir??

Yes, she has one, I must aver:
When all the world conspires to praise her,

The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

DE

ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM, Composed of Marble, Spars, Gems, Orės, and

Minerals,

wave

THOU who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent
Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy caves
Where ling'ring drops from min'ral roofs distil,
And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill,
Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow,
And latent metals innocently glow:
Approach. Great Nature studiously behold!
And eye the mine, without a wish for gold.
Approach: but awful! lo! the Ægerian grot,
Where, nobly pensive, St. John sat and thought;
Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole,
And the bright fame was shot through Marchmont's

soul.
Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor,
Who dare to love their country, and be poor.

TO MRS M. B. ƠN HER BIRTHDAY.

OH;
Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a

friend!
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 đay, and year on year,
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear;
Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy.
Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.

TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN,

On his birthday, 1742.

RESIGN'D to live, prepard to die,

With not one sin, but poetry,
This day Toni's fair account has run
(Without a blot) to eighty.one.
Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
A table, with a cloth of bays;
And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
Presents her harp still to his fiugers.
The feast, his tow'ring genius marks
In yonder wild-goose and the larks!
The mushrooms show his wit was sudden!
And for his judgement, lo a pudden!
Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout,
And grace, although a bard, derout.
May Tom, whom heaven sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,
Be ev'ry birthday more a winner,
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal and a coach.

TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE.

IN beauty or wit,

No mortal as yet,
To question your empire has dar'd;

But men of discerning

Have thought that in learning, To yield to a lady was hard.

Impertinent schools,

With musty dull rules, Have reading to females denied:

So papists refuse

The Bible to use,
Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.

'Twas a woman at Sirst

(Indeed she was curst)' In knowledge that tasted delight,

And sages agree

The laws should decree To the first of possessors the right.

Then bravely, fair dame,

Resume the old claim,
Which to your whole sex does belong';

And let men receive,

From a second bright Eve, The knowledge of right and of wrong.

* This panegyric on Lady Mary Wortley Montague might have been suppressed by Mr. Pope, on account of her having satirized him in her verses to the imie tator of Horace; which abuse he returned in the first satire of the second book of Horace.

From furious Sappho, scarce a milder fate,
Poor'd by her love, or libel'd by her hate.