But who the Bowl, or rattling Dice compares
To Baffet's heav'nly Joys, and pleafing Cares?
Soft SIMPLICETTA doats upon a Beau; PRUDINA likes a Man, and laughs at Show. Their several graces in my SHARPER meet; Strong as the Footman, as the Master sweet.
Cease your contention, which has been too long;
I grow impatient, and the Tea's too strong.
Attend, and yield to what I now decide;
The Equipage fhall grace SMILINDA's Side:
The Snuff-box to CARDELIA I decree,
Now leave complaining, and begin your Tea.
Verbatim from BOILEAU,
Un Jour dit un Auteur, etc.
ONCE (fays an Author, where I need not fay)
Two Trav'llers found an Oyster in their way;
Both fierce, both hungry; the difpute grew ftrong,
While Scale in hand Dame Juftice paft along.
Before her each with clamour pleads the Laws,
Explain'd the matter, and would win the cause.
Dame Juftice weighing long the doubtful Right,
Takes, opens, swallows it, before their fight.
The cause of strife remov'd fo rarely well,
There take (fays Justice) take ye each a Shell.
We thrive at Westminster on Fools like you :
'Twas a fat Oyfter-Live in peace-Adieu.
ANSWER to the following Question of Mrs. HowE.
Seen with Wit and Beauty feldom.
'Tis a fear that starts at fhadows.
'Tis (no, 'tis'nt) like Mifs Meadows.
'Tis a Virgin hard of Feature,
Old, and void of all good-nature;
Lean and fretful; would feem wife
Yet plays the fool before fhe dies.
'Tis an ugly envious Shrew,'
That rails at dear Lepell and You..
Occafioned by fome Verses of his Grace the
Duke of BUCKINGHAM.
MUSE, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends,
And thou fhalt live, for Buckingham commends..
Let Crowds of Critics now my verfe affail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail :
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain,,
Time, health, and fortune are not loft in vain,
Sheffield approves, confenting Phoebus bends,.
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.
To a Play for Mr. DENNIS's Benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great Distress, a little before his Death.
AS when that Hero, who in each Campaign,
Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal flain,
Lay Fortune-ftruck, a spectacle of Woe!
Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by ev'ry Foe:
Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting mind,
But pitied BELISARIUS old and blind?
Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight?
A common Soldier, but who clubb'd his Mite ?
Such, fuch emotions should in Britons rife,
When prefs'd by want and weakness DENNIS lies; 10
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their Quibbles routed, and defy'd their Puns;
VER. 6. But pitied Belifarius, etc.] Nothing could be more happily imagined than this allufion, or finelier conducted. And the continued pleasantry fo delicately touched, that it took nothing from the felf-fatisfaction the Critic, who heard it, had in his Merit, or the Audience in their charity. With fo masterly a hand has the Poet profecuted, in this benevolent irony, that end, which he fuppofed Dennis himself, had he the wit to fee, would have the ingenuity to approve.
This dreaded Sat'rift, Dennis will confefs,
Foe to his Pride, but Friend to bis Diftrefs.
VER. .7. Was there a Chief, etc.] The fine figure of the Commander in that capital Picture of Belifarius at Chifwick, supplied the Poet with this beautiful idea.
A defp'rate Bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce
Against the Gothic Sons of frozen verse :
How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan, 15
And shook the stage with thunders all his own!
Stood up to dash each vain PRETENDER's hope,
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the POPE!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds Dragoons and wooden fhoes in scorn;
If there's a Critic of distinguish'd rage;
If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his juft affiftance lend,
And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend.
WHEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,
Firft fought a Poet's Fortune in the Town,
'Twas all th' Ambition his high foul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steel.
Some Ends of verfe his Betters might afford;
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with thefe, he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd, Play out-did poor Crown.
There he stopp'd fhort, nor fince has writ a tittle,
But has the Wit to make the moft of little :
Like ftunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got
Sufficient Sap at once to bear and rot.
Now he begs Verfe, and what he gets commends,
Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends.
So fome coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd, 15
Trudges to Town, and firft turns Chambermaid;
Awkward and fupple, each devoir to pay ;
She flatters her good Lady twice a day;
Thought wondrous honeft, tho' of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her Simplicity :
In a tranflated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own :
But juft endur'd the Winter she began,
And in four Months a batter'd Harridan,
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk, 25 To bawd for others, and go fhare with Punk.
To Mr. JOHN MOORE,
AUTHOR of the celebrated WORMPOWDER.
How much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by fhews and forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee,
All Humankind are Worms.
Man is a very Worm by birth,
Vile, reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then fhrinks to earth again.
That Woman is a Worm, we find
E'er fince our Grandame's evil; She first convers'd with her own kind, That ancient Worm, the Devil.
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