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Away! Let nought to Love displeasing,

My WINIFREDA! move your care!
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing ;

Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear!

What though no grants of royal donors,

With pompous titles grace our blood : We'll shine in more substantial honours ;

And to be noble, we'll be good!

Our name, while Virtue thus we tender,

Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke : And all the Great Ones, they shall wonder

How they respect such little folk!

What though from Fortune's lavish bounty,

No mighty treasures we possess : We'll find, within our pittance, plenty;

And be content, without excess!

Still shall each kind returning season

Sufficient for our wishes give : For we will live a life of reason,

And that 's the only life to live!

Through youth and age, in love excelling,

We'll hand in hand together tread!
Sweet-smiling Peace shall crown our dwelling;

And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed!

How should I love the pretty creatures,

While round my knees they fondly clung!
To see them look their mother's features;

To hear them lisp their mother's tongue !

And when, with envy Time transported,

Shall think to rob us of our joys;
You'll, in your Girls, again be courted;

And I'll go wooing in my Boys !

ON THE SETTING UP OF MR. SAMUEL BUTLER'S

MONUMENT IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

WHILE BUTLER, needy wretch! was yet alive, No gen'rous Patron would a dinner give! See him, when starved to death and turned to dust, Presented with a monumental bust! The Poet's fate is here in emblem shown: He asked for bread, and he received a stone!

EPITAPH ON TOM D'URFEY.

HERE lies the Lyric, who, with Tale and Song, Did life to threescore years and ten prolong. His Tale was pleasant, and his Song was sweet, His heart was cheerful—but his thirst was great! Grieve, Reader! grieve that he, too soon grown old, His Song has ended, and his Tale has told.

ADVICE

TO THE GRUB STREET VERSE WRITERS.

Written in the year 1726.

YE Poets ragged and forlorn,

Down from your garrets haste ! Ye Rhymers, dead as soon as born,

Not yet consigned to paste!

I know a trick to make you thrive!

O, 'tis a quaint device!
Your still-born Poems shall revive,

And scorn to wrap up spice!

Get all your verses printed fair,

Then, let them well be dried;
And Curll must have a special care

To leave the margin wide.

Lend these to paper-sparing POPE !

And, when he sets to write, No letter with an envelope

Could give him more delight!

When POPE has filled the margins round;

Why then, recall your loan!
Sell them to CurlL for Fifty Pound;

And swear they are your own!

TO MR. POPE,

WHILE HE WAS WRITING THE DUNCIAD.'

Written in the year 1726.

POPE has the talent well to speak;

But not to reach the ear.
His loudest voice is low and weak;

The Dean too deaf to hear.

A while they on each other look,

Then diff'rent studies choose ; The Dean sits plodding on a book,

POPE walks, and courts the Muse.

Now packs of letters, though designed

For those who more will need them, Are filled with hints, and interlined;

Himself can hardly read them!

Each atom, by some other struck,

All turns and motions tries; Till, in a lump together stuck,

Behold a Poem rise !

Yet to the Dean his share allot!

He claims it by a Canon, •That without which a thing is not,

Is causa sine qua non.'

Thus, Pope! in vain, you boast your wit!

For had our deaf Divine
Been for your conversation fit,

You had not writ a line!

Of SHERLOCK thus, for preaching famed,

The Sexton reasoned well;
And justly half the merit claimed,

Because he rang the Bell.

MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER

TO [THE REV.] DOCTOR SHERIDAN.

Written in the year 1723.

WELL! if ever I saw such another man, since my mother bound my head! You, a Gentleman! Marry, come up! I wonder, where you were bred? I am sure, such words do not become a Man of your Cloth! I would not give such language to a dog! faith and troth! Yes! You called my Master' a Knavel' Fie! Mr. SHERIDAN! 'tis a shame For a Parson, who should know better things, to come out with such a name! Knave' in your teeth, Mr. SHERIDAN ! 'Tis both a shame and a sin; And the Dean, my Master, is an honester man than you and all your

kin! He has more goodness in his little finger, than you have in your whole

body! My Master is a parsonable man; and not a spindle-shanked hoddy

doddy! And now whereby I find you would fain make an excuse, Because my Master, one day, in anger, called you 'Goose !' Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October, And he never called me worse than ‘Sweet-heart !', drunk or sober.

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