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EPIGRAM.

A bishop by his neighbours hated
Has cause to wish himself translated :
But why should Hough desire translation,
Lov'd and esteem'd by all the nation ?
Yet, if it be the old man's case,
I'll lay my life I know the place:
'Tis where God sent some that adore him,
And whither Enoch went before him.

EPIGRAM ON THE FEUDS ABOUT HANDEL

AND BONONCINI.

STRANGE! all this difference should be
'Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!

ON MRS. TOFTS, A CELEBRATED OPERA

SINGER.

So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus

along: But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride, That the beasts must have starv'd, and the poet

have died.

THE BALANCE OF EUROPE.

Now, Europe balanc'd, neither side prevails ; For nothing's left in either of the scales.

EPITAPH ON LORD CONINGSBY. *

HERE lies Lord Coningsby—be civil!
The rest God knows-perhaps the Devil.

EPIGRAM.

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come: Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.

EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH.

Sir, I admit your general rule,
That every poet is a fool:
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every

fool is not a poet.

EPITAPH.

WELL then, poor G-lies under ground !

So there's an end of honest Jack: So little justice here he found,

'Tis ten to one he'll ne'er come back.

EPIGRAM ON THE TOASTS OF THE KIT-CAT

CLUB, ANNO 1716.

WHENCE deathless Kit-cat' took its name,

Few critics can unriddle:
Some say from Pastrycook' it came,

And some, from cat' and «fiddle.'

From no trim beaux its name it boasts,

Gray statesmen, or green wits ; But from this pellmell pack of toasts

Of old cats' and young kits.'

TO A LADY, WITH THE TEMPLE OF FAME.

WHAT's fame with men, by custom of the nation,
Is call’d, in women, only reputation :
About them both why keep we such a pother?
Part you with one, and I'll renounce the other.

ON THE COUNTESS OF BURLINGTON

CUTTING PAPER.

Pallas grew vapourish once and odd ;

She would not do the least right thing, Either for goddess or for god,

Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing.

Jove frown'd, and “Use (he cried) those eyes

So skilful, and those hands so taper; Do something exquisite and wisé—”

She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut paper.

This vexing him who gave her birth,

Thought by all heaven a burning shame, What does she next, but bids, on earth,

Her Burlington do just the same.

Pallas, you give yourself strange airs ;

But sure you'll find it hard to spoil The sense and taste of one that bears

The name of Saville and of Boyle.

Alas! one bad example shown,

How quickly all the sex pursue ! See, madam, see the arts o'erthrown

Between John Overton and you !

ON DRAWINGS OF THE STATUES OF APOLLO,

VENUS, AND HERCULES,

MADE FOR POPE BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.

What god, what genius did the pencil move,

When Kneller painted these? 'Twas friendship, warm as Phæbus, kind as Love,

And strong as Hercules.

ARGUS.

When wise Ulysses, from his native coast
Long kept by wars, and long by tempests toss'd,
Arriv'd at last, poor, old, disguis’d, alone,
To all his friends, and even his queen unknown,
Chang'd as he was, with age, and toils, and cares,
Furrow'd his reverend face, and white his hairs,
In his own palace forc'd to ask his bread,
Scorn'd by those slaves his former bounty fed,
Forgot of all his own domestic crew,
The faithful dog alone his rightful master knew!
Unfed, unhous’d, neglected, on the clay,
Like an old servant now cashier'd, he lay;
Touch'd with resentment of ungrateful man,
And longing to behold his ancient lord again.
Him when he saw he rose, and crawlid to meet,
('Twas all he could) and fawn'd and kiss'd his feet,
Seiz'd with dumb joy; then falling by his side,
Own'd his returning lord, look'd up, and died !

ܪ

PRAYER OF BRUTUS.

FROM GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH.

Goddess of woods, tremendous in the chase
To mountain wolves and all the savage race,
Wide o'er th' aerial vault extend thy sway,
And o'er th' infernal regions void of day.

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