The playful smiles around the dimpled mouth, That happy air of majesty and truth, So would I draw: but, oh! 'tis vain to try, My narrow genius does the power deny; The equal lustre of the heavenly mind, Where every grace with every virtue's join'd: Learning not vain, and wisdom not severe, With greatness easy, and with wit sincere; With just description show the soul divine, And the whole princess in my work should shine.

LINES SUNG BY DURASTANTI,

WHEN SHE TOOK LEAVE OF THE ENGLISH STAGE.

1 Generous, gay, and gallant nation, Bold in arms, and bright in arts; Land secure from all invasion, All but Cupid's gentle darts!

From your charms, oh! who would run?

Who would leave you for the sun?

Happy soil, adieu, adieu!

2 Let old charmers yield to new; In arms, in arts, be still more shining: All your joys be still increasing; All your tastes be still refining; All your jars for ever ceasing; But let old charmers yield to new: Happy soil, adieu, adieu!

UPON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH'S HOUSE AT WOODSTOCK.

'See, sir, here's the grand approach, This way is for his Grace's coach: There lies the bridge, and here's the clock, Observe the lion and the cock, The spacious court, the colonnade, And mark how wide the hall is made!

The chimneys are so well design'd, They never smoke in any wind.

This gallery's contrived for walking, The windows to retire and talk in; The council chamber for debate, And all the rest are rooms of state.'

'Thanks, sir,' cried I, ''tis very fine, But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine?

I find by all you have been telling That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.'

VERSES LEFT BY MR POPE.

ON HIS LYING IN THE SAME BED WHICH WILMOT, THE CELEBRATED EARL OF ROCHESTER, SLEPT IN AT ADDERBURY, THEN BELONGING TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLL, JULY 9, 1739.

1 With no poetic ardour fired, I press the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he loved, or here expired, Begets no numbers, grave or gay.

2 Beneath thy roof, Argyll, are bred Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed, Beneath a nobler roof--the sky.

3 Such flames as high in patriots burn, Yet stoop to bless a child or wife; And such as wicked kings may mourn, When freedom is more dear than life.

THE CHALLENGE, A COURT BALLAD.

TO THE TUNE OF 'TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND.'

1 To one fair lady out of Court, And two fair ladies in, Who think the Turk[72] and Pope[73] a sport, And wit and love no sin; Come these soft lines, with nothing stiff in, To Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin.[74]

With a fa, la, la.

2 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.

3 Then why to Courts should I repair, Where's such ado with Townshend?

To hear each mortal stamp and swear, And every speech with 'zounds!' end; To hear 'em rail at honest Sunderland, And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.[75]

With a fa, la, la.

4 Alas! like Schutz I cannot pun, Like Grafton court the Germans; Tell Pickenbourg how slim she's grown, Like Meadows[76] run to sermons; To Court ambitious men may roam, But I and Marlbro' stay at home.

With a fa, la, la.

5 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; Perhaps, in time, you'll leave high diet, To sup with us on milk and quiet.

With a fa, la, la.

6 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.

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

With a fa, la, la.

8 And thus, fair maids, my ballad ends; God send the king safe landing;[77]

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.

THE THREE GENTLE SHEPHERDS.

Of gentle Philips[78] will I ever sing, With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring; My numbers, too, for ever will I vary, With gentle Budgell,[79] and with gentle Carey.[80]

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 ye!

EPIGRAM,

ENGRAVED ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG WHICH I GAVE TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS.

I am His Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

THE TRANSLATOR.

Ozell, at Sanger's call, invoked his Muse, For who to sing for Sanger could refuse?

His numbers such as Sanger's self might use.

Reviving Perrault, murdering Boileau, he Slander'd the ancients first, then Wycherley; Which yet not much that old bard's anger raised, Since those were slander'd most whom Ozell praised.

Nor had the gentle satire caused complaining, Had not sage Rowe pronounced it entertaining; How great must be the judgment of that writer, Who the Plain Dealer damns, and prints the Biter!

THE LOOKING-GLASS.

ON MRS PULTENEY.[81]