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Ab, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,
The worm that never dies,
Who sett'st our entrails free;
Since worms shall eat ev’n thee.
Some few short years, no more!
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.
Yes, she has one, I must aver:
The woman's deaf, and does not hear.
ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM, Composed of Marble, Spars, Gems, Orės, and
THOU who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent
TO MRS M. B. ƠN HER BIRTHDAY.
Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas ! too clear,
Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN,
On his birthday, 1742.
RESIGN'D to live, prepard to die,
With not one sin, but poetry,
TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE.
IN beauty or wit,
No mortal as yet,
But men of discerning
Have thought that in learning, To yield to a lady was hard.
With musty dull rules, Have reading to females denied:
So papists refuse
The Bible to use,
'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,
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,