1717	ALEXANDER POPE Epistle to Miss Blount, on Her Leaving the Town, after the Coronation
	As some fond virgin, whom her mother’s care
	Drags from the town to wholsom country air,
	Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
	And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
	From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
	Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever:
	Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
	Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;
	Not that their pleasures caus’d her discontent,
	She sigh’d not that They stay’d, but that She went.
	She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
	Old-fashion’d halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks,
	She went from Op’ra, park, assembly, play,
	To morning walks, and pray’rs three hours a day;
	To pass her time ’twixt reading and Bohea,
	To muse, and spill her solitary Tea,
	Or o’er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
	Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
	Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
	Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;
	Up to her godly garret after sev’n,
	There starve and pray, for that’s the way to heav’n.
	Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;
	Whose game is Whisk, whose treat a toast in sack,
	Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,
	Then gives a smacking buss, and cries – No words!
	Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable,
	Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
	Whose laughs are hearty, tho’ his jests are coarse,
	And loves you best of all things – but his horse.
	In some fair evening, on your elbow laid,
	You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
	In pensive thought recall the fancy’d scene,
	See Coronations rise on ev’ry green;
	Before you pass th’ imaginary sights
	Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter’d Knights;
	While the spread Fan o’ershades your closing eyes;
	Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
	Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
	And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls.
	So when your slave, at some dear, idle time,
	(Not plagu’d with headachs, or the want of rhime)
	Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
	And while he seems to study, thinks of you:
	Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,
	Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,
	Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite;
	Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight;
	Vext to be still in town, I knit my brow,
	Look sow’r, and hum a tune – as you may now.
	MATTHEW PRIOR A Better Answer to Cloe Jealous
	Dear Cloe, how blubber’d is that pretty Face?
	Thy Cheek all on Fire, and Thy Hair all uncurl’d:
	Pr’ythee quit this Caprice; and (as Old FALSTAF says)
	Let Us e’en talk a little like Folks of This World.
	How can’st Thou presume, Thou hast leave to destroy
	The Beauties, which VENUS but lent to Thy keeping?
	Those Looks were design’d to inspire Love and Joy:
	More ord’nary Eyes may serve People for weeping.
	To be vext at a Trifle or two that I writ,
	Your Judgment at once, and my Passion You wrong:
	You take that for Fact, which will scarce be found Wit:
	Od’s Life! must One swear to the Truth of a Song?
	What I speak, my fair CLOE, and what I write, shews
	The Diff ’rence there is betwixt Nature and Art:
	I court others in Verse; but I love Thee in Prose:
	And They have my Whimsies; but Thou hast my Heart.
	The God of us Verse-men (You know Child) the SUN,
	How after his Journeys He sets up his Rest:
	If at Morning o’er Earth ’tis his Fancy to run;
	At Night he reclines on his THETIS’S Breast.
	So when I am weary’d with wand’ring all Day;
	To Thee my Delight in the Evening I come:
	No Matter what Beauties I saw in my Way:
	They were but my Visits; but Thou art my Home.
	Then finish, Dear CLOE, this Pastoral War;
	And let us like HORACE and LYDIA agree:
	For Thou art a Girl as much brighter than Her,
	As He was a Poet sublimer than Me.
	MATTHEW PRIOR The Lady Who Offers Her Looking-Glass to Venus
	Venus, take my Votive Glass:
	Since I am not what I was;
	What from this Day I shall be,
	VENUS, let Me never see.
	MATTHEW PRIOR A True Maid
	No, no; for my Virginity,
	When I lose that, says ROSE, I’ll dye:
	Behind the Elmes, last Night, cry’d DICK,
	ROSE, were You not extreamly Sick?
1719	ISAAC WATTS Man Frail, and God Eternal
	Our God, our Help in Ages past,
	Our Hope for Years to come,
	Our Shelter from the Stormy Blast,
	And our eternal Home.
	Under the Shadow of thy Throne
	Thy Saints have dwelt secure;
	Sufficient is thine Arm alone,
	And our Defence is sure.
	Before the Hills in order stood,
	Or Earth receiv’d her Frame,
	From everlasting Thou art God,
	To endless Years the same.
	Thy Word commands our Flesh to Dust,
	Return, ye Sons of Men:
	All Nations rose from Earth at first,
	And turn to Earth again.
	A thousand Ages in thy Sight
	Are like an Evening gone;
	Short as the Watch that ends the Night
	Before the rising Sun.
	The busy Tribes of Flesh and Blood
	With all their Lives and Cares
	Are carried downwards by thy Flood,
	And lost in following Years.
	Time like an ever-rolling Stream
	Bears all its Sons away;
	They fly forgotten as a Dream
	Dies at the opening Day.
	Like flow’ry Fields the Nations stand
	Pleas’d with the Morning-light;
	The Flowers beneath the Mower’s Hand
	Ly withering e’er ’tis Night.
	Our God, our Help in Ages past,
	Our Hope for Years to come,
	Be thou our Guard while Troubles last,
	And our eternal Home.
1720	ALLAN RAMSAY Polwart on the Green
	At Polwart on the Green
	If you’ll meet me the Morn,
	Where Lasses do conveen
	To dance about the Thorn
5	A kindly Welcome you shall meet
	Frae her wha likes to view
	A Lover and a Lad complete,
	The Lad and Lover you.
	Let dorty Dames say Na,
10	As lang as e’er they please,
	Seem caulder than the Sna’,
	While inwardly they bleeze;
	But I will frankly shaw my Mind,
	And yield my Heart to thee;
15	Be ever to the Captive kind,
	That langs na to be free.
	At Polwart on the Green,
	Among the new mawn Hay,
	With Sangs and Dancing keen
20	We’ll pass the heartsome Day,
	At Night if Beds be o’er thrang laid,
	And thou be twin’d of thine,
	Thou shalt be welcome, my dear Lad,
	To take a Part of mine.
	JOHN GAY My Own EPITAPH
	Life is a jest; and all things show it,
	I thought so once; but now I know it.
1722	ALEXANDER POPE To Mr. Gay, Who Wrote Him a Congratulatory Letter on the Finishing His House
	Ah friend, ’tis true – this truth you lovers know –
	In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow,
	In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes
	Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens:
	Joy lives not here; to happier seats it flies,
	And only dwells where WORTLEY casts her eyes.
	What are the gay parterre, the chequer’d shade,
	The morning bower, the ev’ning colonade,
	But soft recesses of uneasy minds,
	To sigh unheard in, to the passing winds?
	So the struck deer in some sequester’d part
	Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart;
	There, stretch’d unseen in coverts hid from day,
	Bleeds drop by drop, and pants his life away.
	JONATHAN SWIFT A Satirical Elegy. On the Death of a Late Famous General
	His Grace! impossible! what dead!
	Of old age too, and in his bed!
	And could that Mighty Warrior fall?
	And so inglorious, after all!
	Well, since he’s gone, no matter how,
	The last loud trump must wake him now:
	And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
	He’d wish to sleep a little longer.
	And could he be indeed so old
	As by the news-papers we’re told?
	Threescore, I think, is pretty high;
	’Twas time in conscience he should die.
	This world he cumber’d long enough;
	He burnt his candle to the snuff;
	And that’s the reason, some folks think,
	He left behind so great a stink.
	Behold his funeral appears,
	Nor widow’s sighs, nor orphan’s tears,
	Wont at such times each heart to pierce,
	Attend the progress of his herse.
	But what of that, his friends may say,
	He had those honours in his day.
	True to his profit and his pride,
	He made them weep before he dy’d.
	Come hither, all ye empty things,
	Ye bubbles rais’d by breath of Kings;
	Who float upon the tide of state,
	Come hither, and behold your fate.
	Let pride be taught by this rebuke,
	How very mean a thing’s a Duke;
	From all his ill-got honours flung,
	Turn’d to that dirt from whence he sprung.
	(1764)
	WILLIAM DIAPER from the Greek of Oppian’s Halieuticks
	[The Loves of the Fishes]
	Strange the Formation of the Eely Race,
	That know no Sex, yet love the close Embrace.
	Their folded Lengths they round each other twine.
	Twist am’rous Knots, and slimy Bodies joyn;
	Till the close Strife brings off a frothy Juice,
	The Seed that must the wriggling Kind produce.
	Regardless They their future Offspring leave,
	But porous Sands the spumy Drops receive,
	That genial Bed impregnates all the Heap,
	And little Eelets soon begin to creep.
	Half-Fish, Half-Slime they try their doubtful strength,
	And slowly trail along their wormy Length.
	What great Effects from slender Causes flow!
	Congers their Bulk to these Productions owe:
	The Forms, which from the frothy Drop began.
	Stretch out immense, and eddy all the Main.
	Justly might Female Tortoises complain,
	To whom Enjoyment is the greatest Pain,
	They dread the Tryal, and foreboding hate
	The growing Passion of the cruel Mate.
	He amorous pursues, They conscious fly
	Joyless Caresses, and resolv’d deny.
	Since partial Heav’n has thus restrain’d the Bliss,
	The Males they welcome with a closer Kiss,
	Bite angry, and reluctant Hate declare.
	The Tortoise-Courtship is a State of War.
	Eager they fight, but with unlike Design,
	Males to obtain, and Females to decline.
	The conflict lasts, till these by Strength o’ercome
	All sorrowing yield to the resistless Doom.
	Not like a Bride, but pensive Captive, led
	To the loath’d Duties of an hated Bed.
	(… )
	Then from the teeming Filth, and putrid Heap,
	Like Summer Grubs, the little Slime-Fish creep.
	Devour’d by All the passive Curse they own,
	Opprest by ev’ry Kind, but injure none.
	Harmless they live, nor murd’rous Hunger know,
	But to themselves their mutual Pleasures owe;
	Each other lick, and the close Kiss repeat;
	Thus loving thrive, and praise the luscious Treat.
	When they in Throngs a safe Retirement seek,
	Where pointed Rocks the rising Surges break,
	Or where calm Waters in their Bason sleep,
	While chalky Cliffs o’erlook the shaded Deep,
	The Seas all gilded o’er the Shoal betray,
	And shining Tracks inform their wand’ring Way.
	As when soft Snows, brought down by Western Gales,
	Silent descend and spread on all the Vales;
	Add to the Plains, and on the Mountains shine,
	While in chang’d Fields the starving Cattle pine;
	Nature bears all one Face, looks coldly bright,
	And mourns her lost Variety in White,
	Unlike themselves the Objects glare around,
	And with false Rays the dazzled Sight confound:
	So, when the Shoal appears, the changing Streams
	Lose their Sky-blew, and shine with silver Gleams.
1724	LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU Epistle from Mrs. Y[onge] to her Husband
	Think not this Paper comes with vain pretence
	To move your Pity, or to mourn th’offence.
	Too well I know that hard Obdurate Heart;
	No soft’ning mercy there will take my part,
	Nor can a Woman’s Arguments prevail,
	When even your Patron’s wise Example fails,
	But this last privelege I still retain,
	Th’Oppress’d and Injur’d allways may complain.
	Too, too severely Laws of Honour bind
	The Weak Submissive Sex of Woman-kind.
	If sighs have gain’d or force compell’d our Hand,
	Deceiv’d by Art, or urg’d by stern Command,
	What ever Motive binds the fatal Tye,
	The Judging World expects our Constancy.
	Just Heaven! (for sure in Heaven does Justice reign
	Thô Tricks below that sacred Name prophane)
	To you appealing I submit my Cause
	Nor fear a Judgment from Impartial Laws.
	All Bargains but conditional are made,
	The Purchase void, the Creditor unpaid,
	Defrauded Servants are from Service free,
	A wounded Slave regains his Liberty.
	For Wives ill us’d no remedy remains,
	To daily Racks condemn’d, and to eternal Chains.
	From whence is this unjust Distinction grown?
	Are we not form’d with Passions like your own?
	Nature with equal Fire our Souls endu’d,
	Our Minds as Haughty, and as warm our blood,
	O’re the wide World your pleasures you persue,
	The Change is justify’d by something new;
	But we must sigh in Silence – and be true.
	Our Sexes Weakness you expose and blame
	(Of every Prattling Fop the common Theme),
	Yet from this Weakness you suppose is due
	Sublimer Virtu than your Cato knew.
	Had Heaven design’d us Tryals so severe,
	It would have form’d our Tempers then to bear.
	And I have born (o what have I not born!)
	The pang of Jealousie, th’Insults of Scorn.
	Weary’d at length, I from your sight remove,
	And place my Future Hopes, in Secret Love.
	In the gay Bloom of glowing Youth retir’d,
	I quit the Woman’s Joy to be admir’d,
	With that small Pension your hard Heart allows,
	Renounce your Fortune, and release your Vows.
	To Custom (thô unjust) so much is due,
	I hide my Frailty, from the Public view.
	My Conscience clear, yet sensible of Shame,
	My Life I hazard, to preserve my Fame.
	And I prefer this low inglorious State,
	To vile dependance on the Thing I hate –
	– But you persue me to this last retreat.
	Dragg’d into Light, my tender Crime is shown
	And every Circumstance of Fondness known.
	Beneath the Shelter of the Law you stand,
	And urge my Ruin with a cruel Hand.
	While to my Fault thus rigidly severe,
	Tamely Submissive to the Man you fear.
	This wretched Out-cast, this abandonn’d Wife,
	Has yet this Joy to sweeten shamefull Life,
	By your mean Conduct, infamously loose,
	You are at once m’Accuser, and Excuse.
	Let me be damn’d by the Censorious Prude
	(Stupidly Dull, or Spiritually Lewd),
	My hapless Case will surely Pity find
	From every Just and reasonable Mind,
	When to the final Sentence I submit,
	The Lips condemn me, but their Souls acquit.
	No more my Husband, to your Pleasures go,
	The Sweets of your recover’d Freedom know,
	Go; Court the brittle Freindship of the Great,
	Smile at his Board, or at his Levée wait
	And when dismiss’d to Madam’s Toilet fly,
	More than her Chambermaids, or Glasses, Lye,
	Tell her how Young she looks, how heavenly fair,
	Admire the Lillys, and the Roses, there,
	Your high Ambition may be gratify’d,
	Some Cousin of her own be made your Bride,
	And you the Father of a Glorious Race
	Endow’d with Ch—l’s strength and Low – r’s face.
	(1972)
1725	EDWARD YOUNG from Love of Fame. Satire V
	The languid lady next appears in state,
	Who was not born to carry her own weight;
	She lolls, reels, staggers, ’till some foreign aid
	To her own stature lifts the feeble maid.
	Then, if ordain’d to so severe a doom
	She, by just stages, journeys round the room:
	But knowing her own weakness, she despairs
	To scale the Alps – that is, ascend the stairs.
	My fan! let others say who laugh at toil;
	Fan! hood! glove! scarf! is her laconick style.
	And that is spoke with such a dying fall,
	That Betty rather sees, than hears the call:
	The motion of her lips, and meaning eye
	Piece out the Idea her faint words deny.
	O listen with attention most profound!
	Her voice is but the shadow of a sound.
	And help! O help! her spirits are so dead,
	One hand scarce lifts the other to her head.
	If, there, a stubborn pin it triumphs o’er,
	She pants! she sinks away! and is no more.
	Let the robust, and the gygantick carve,
	Life is not worth so much, she’d rather starve;
	But chew she must herself, ah cruel fate!
	That Rosalinda can’t by proxy eat.
	HENRY CAREY from Namby-Pamby. A Panegyric on the New Versification, Address’d to A— P—, Esq.
	Naughty Paughty Jack-a-Dandy,
	Stole a Piece of Sugar Candy
	From the Grocer’s Shoppy-Shop,
	And away did hoppy-hop.
	All ye poets of the age,
	All ye witlings of the stage,
	Learn your jingles to reform,
	Crop your numbers and conform.
	Let your little verses flow
	Gently, sweetly, row by row;
	Let the verse the subject fit,
	Little subject, little wit.
	Namby-Pamby is your guide,
	Albion’s joy, Hibernia’s pride.
	Namby-Pamby, pilly-piss,
	Rhimy-pim’d on Missy Miss
	Tartaretta Tartaree,
	From the navel to the knee;
	That her father’s gracy grace
	Might give him a placy place.
	He no longer writes of Mammy
	Andromache and her lammy,
	Hanging-panging at the breast
	Of a matron most distress’d.
	Now the venal poet sings
	Baby clouts and baby things,
	Baby dolls and baby houses,
	Little misses, little spouses,
	Little playthings, little toys,
	Little girls and little boys.
	As an actor does his part,
	So the nurses get by heart
	Namby-Pamby’s little rhimes,
	Little jingle, little chimes,
	To repeat to missy-miss,
	Piddling ponds of pissy-piss;
	Cacking-packing like a lady,
	Or bye-bying in the crady.
	Namby-Pamby ne’er will die
	While the nurse sings lullaby.
	Namby-Pamby’s doubly mild,
	Once a man, and twice a child;
	To his hanging sleeves restor’d,
	Now he foots it like a lord;
	Now he pumps his little wits,
	Sh… ing writes, and writing sh… ts,
	All by little tiny bits.
	Now methinks I hear him say,
	Boys and girls, come out to play!
	Moon do’s shine as bright as day.
1726	ABEL EVANS On Sir John Vanbrugh (The Architect). An Epigrammatical Epitaph
	Under this stone, Reader, survey
	Dead Sir John Vanbrugh’s House of Clay.
	Lie heavy on him, Earth! for he
	Laid many Heavy Loads on thee!
	JOHN DYER from Grongar Hill
	Now, I gain the Mountain’s Brow,
	What a Landskip lies below!
	No Clouds, no Vapours intervene,
	But the gay, the open Scene
	Does the Face of Nature show,
	In all the Hues of Heaven’s Bow!
	And, swelling to embrace the Light,
	Spreads around beyond the Sight.
	Old Castles on the Cliffs arise,
	Proudly tow’ring in the Skies!
	Rushing from the Woods, the Spires
	Seem from hence ascending Fires!
	Half his Beams Apollo sheds,
	On the yellow Mountain-Heads!
	Gilds the Fleeces of the Flocks;
	And glitters on the broken Rocks!
	Below me Trees unnumber’d rise,
	Beautiful in various Dies:
	The gloomy Pine, the Poplar blue,
	The yellow Beech, the sable Yew,
	The slender Firr, that taper grows,
	The sturdy Oak with broad-spread Boughs.
	And beyond the purple Grove,
	Haunt of Phillis, Queen of Love!
	Gawdy as the op’ning Dawn,
	Lies a long and level Lawn,
	On which a dark Hill, steep and high,
	Holds and charms the wand’ring Eye!
	Deep are his Feet in Towy’s Flood,
	His Sides are cloath’d with waving Wood,
	And antient Towers crown his Brow,
	That cast an awful Look below;
	Whose ragged Walls the Ivy creeps,
	And with her Arms from falling keeps.
	So both a Safety from the Wind
	On mutual Dependance find.
	’Tis now the Raven’s bleak Abode;
	’Tis now th’ Apartment of the Toad;
	And there the Fox securely feeds;
	And there the pois’nous Adder breeds,
	Conceal’d in Ruins, Moss and Weeds:
	While, ever and anon, there falls,
	Huge heaps of hoary moulder’d Walls.
	Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low,
	And level lays the lofty Brow,
	Has seen this broken Pile compleat,
	Big with the Vanity of State;
	But transient is the Smile of Fate!
	A little Rule, a little Sway,
	A Sun-beam in a Winter’s Day
	Is all the Proud and Mighty have,
	Between the Cradle and the Grave.
	ALLAN RAMSAY from the Latin of Horace
	What young Raw Muisted Beau Bred at his Glass
	now wilt thou on a Rose’s Bed Carress
	wha niest to thy white Breasts wilt thow intice
	with hair unsnooded and without thy Stays
5	O Bonny Lass wi’ thy Sweet Landart Air
	how will thy fikle humour gie him care
	when e’er thou takes the fling strings, like the wind
	that Jaws the Ocean – thou’lt disturb his Mind
	when thou looks smirky kind and claps his cheek
10	to poor friends then he’l hardly look or speak
	the Coof belivest-na but Right soon he’ll find
	thee Light as Cork and wavring as the Wind
	on that slid place where I ’maist brake my Bains
	to be a warning I Set up twa Stains
15	that nane may venture there as I hae done
	unless wi’ frosted Nails he Clink his Shoon.
	(1961)
	JAMES THOMSON from Summer
	[‘Forenoon. Summer Insects Described’]
	The daw,
	The rook, and magpie, to the grey-grown oaks
	(That the calm village in their verdant arms,
	Sheltering, embrace) direct their lazy flight;
	Where on the mingling boughs they sit embowered
	All the hot noon, till cooler hours arise.
	Faint underneath the household fowls convene;
	And, in a corner of the buzzing shade,
	The house-dog with the vacant greyhound lies
	Out-stretched and sleepy. In his slumbers one
	Attacks the nightly thief, and one exults
	O’er hill and dale; till, wakened by the wasp,
	They starting snap. Nor shall the muse disdain
	To let the little noisy summer-race
	Live in her lay and flutter through her song:
	Not mean though simple – to the sun allied,
	From him they draw their animating fire.
	Waked by his warmer ray, the reptile young
	Come winged abroad, by the light air upborne,
	Lighter, and full of soul. From every chink
	And secret corner, where they slept away
	The wintry storms, or rising from their tombs
	To higher life, by myriads forth at once
	Swarming they pour, of all the varied hues
	Their beauty-beaming parent can disclose.
	Ten thousand forms, ten thousand different tribes
	People the blaze. To sunny waters some
	By fatal instinct fly; where on the pool
	They sportive wheel, or, sailing down the stream,
	Are snatched immediate by the quick-eyed trout
	Or darting salmon. Through the green-wood glade
	Some love to stray; there lodged, amused, and fed
	In the fresh leaf. Luxurious, others make
	The meads their choice, and visit every flower
	And every latent herb: for the sweet task
	To propagate their kinds, and where to wrap
	In what soft beds their young, yet undisclosed,
	Employs their tender care. Some to the house,
	The fold, and dairy hungry bend their flight;
	Sip round the pail, or taste the curdling cheese:
	Oft, inadvertent, from the milky stream
	They meet their fate; or, weltering in the bowl,
	With powerless wings around them wrapt, expire.
	(… )
	Resounds the living surface of the ground:
	Nor undelightful is the ceaseless hum
	To him who muses through the woods at noon,
	Or drowsy shepherd as he lies reclined,
	With half-shut eyes, beneath the floating shade
	Of willows grey, close-crowding o’er the brook,
	Gradual from these what numerous kinds descend,
	Evading even the microscopic eye!
	Full Nature swarms with life; one wondrous mass
	Of animals, or atoms organized
	Waiting the vital breath when Parent-Heaven
	Shall bid his spirit blow. The hoary fen
	In putrid streams emits the living cloud
	Of pestilence. Through subterranean cells,
	Where searching sunbeams scarce can find a way,
	Earth animated heaves. The flowery leaf
	Wants not its soft inhabitants. Secure
	Within its winding citadel the stone
	Holds multitudes. But chief the forest boughs,
	That dance unnumbered to the playful breeze,
	The downy orchard, and the melting pulp
	Of mellow fruit the nameless nations feed
	Of evanescent insects. Where the pool
	Stands mantled o’er with green, invisible
	Amid the floating verdure millions stray.
	Each liquid too, whether it pierces, soothes,
	Inflames, refreshes, or exalts the taste,
	With various forms abounds. Nor is the stream
	Of purest crystal, nor the lucid air,
	Though one transparent vacancy it seems,
	Void of their unseen people. These, concealed
	By the kind art of forming Heaven, escape
	The grosser eye of man: for, if the worlds
	In worlds inclosed should on his senses burst,
	From cates ambrosial and the nectared bowl
	He would abhorrent turn; and in dead night,
	When Silence sleeps o’er all, be stunned with noise.
	[‘Night. Summer Meteors. A Comet’]
	Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge,
	The glow-worm lights his gem; and, through the dark,
	A moving radiance twinkles. Evening yields
	The world to Night; not in her winter robe
	Of massy Stygian woof, but loose arrayed
	In mantle dun. A faint erroneous ray,
	Glanced from the imperfect surfaces of things,
	Flings half an image on the straining eye;
	While wavering woods, and villages, and streams,
	And rocks, and mountain-tops that long retained
	The ascending gleam are all one swimming scene,
	Uncertain if beheld. Sudden to heaven
	Thence weary vision turns; where, leading soft
	The silent hours of love, with purest ray
	Sweet Venus shines; and, from her genial rise,
	When daylight sickens, till it springs afresh,
	Unrivalled reigns, the fairest lamp of night.
	As thus the effulgence tremulous I drink,
	With cherished gaze, the lambent lightnings shoot
	Across the sky, or horizontal dart
	In wondrous shapes – by fearful murmuring crowds
	Portentous deemed. Amid the radiant orbs
	That more than deck, that animate the sky,
	The life-infusing suns of other worlds,
	Lo! from the dread immensity of space
	Returning with accelerated course,
	The rushing comet to the sun descends;
	And, as he sinks below the shading earth,
	With awful train projected o’er the heavens,
	The guilty nations tremble. But, above
	Those superstitious horrors that enslave
	The fond sequacious herd, to mystic faith
	And blind amazement prone, the enlightened few,
	Whose godlike minds philosophy exalts,
	The glorious stranger hail. They feel a joy
	Divinely great; they in their powers exult,
	That wondrous force of thought, which mounting spurns
	This dusky spot, and measures all the sky;
	While, from his far excursion through the wilds
	Of barren ether, faithful to his time,
	They see the blazing wonder rise anew,
	In seeming terror clad, but kindly bent,
	To work the will of all-sustaining love –
	From his huge vapoury train perhaps to shake
	Reviving moisture on the numerous orbs
	Through which his long ellipsis winds, perhaps
	To lend new fuel to declining suns,
	To light up worlds, and feed the eternal fire.
1727	JOHN GAY from Fables
	The Wild Boar and the Ram
	Against an elm a sheep was ty’d,
	The butcher’s knife in blood was dy’d;
	The patient flock, in silent fright,
	From far beheld the horrid sight;
	A savage Boar, who near them stood,
	Thus mock’d to scorn the fleecy brood.
	All cowards should be serv’d like you.
	See, see, your murd’rer is in view;
	With purple hands and reeking knife
	He strips the skin yet warm with life:
	Your quarter’d sires, your bleeding dams,
	The dying bleat of harmless lambs
	Call for revenge. O stupid race!
	The heart that wants revenge is base.
	I grant, an ancient Ram replys,
	We bear no terror in our eyes,
	Yet think us not of soul so tame,
	Which no repeated wrongs inflame,
	Insensible of ev’ry ill,
	Because we want thy tusks to kill.
	Know, Those who violence pursue
	Give to themselves the vengeance due,
	For in these massacres they find
	The two chief plagues that waste mankind.
	Our skin supplys the wrangling bar,
	It wakes their slumbring sons to war,
	And well revenge may rest contented,
	Since drums and parchment were invented.
	THOMAS SHERIDAN Tom Punsibi’s Letter to Dean Swift
	When to my House you come dear Dean,
	Your humble Friend to entertain,
	Thro’ Dirt and Mire, along the Street,
	You find no Scraper for your Feet:
	At this, you storm, and stamp, and swell,
	Which serves to clean your Feet as well:
	By steps ascending to the Hall,
	All torn to rags, with Boys and Ball.
	Fragments of Lime about the Floor,
	A sad uneasy Parlor Door,
	Besmear’d with Chalk, and nick’d with Knives,
	(A Pox upon all careless Wives!)
	Are the next Sights you must expect;
	But do not think they’re my Neglect:
	Ah! that these Evils were the worst,
	The Parlor still is further curst;
	To enter there if you advance,
	If in you get, it is by Chance:
	How oft in Turns have you and I
	Said thus – let me, – no, let me try,
	This Turn will open it I engage,
	You push me from it in a Rage!
	Twisting, turning, trifling, rumbling,
	Scolding, stairing, fretting, grumbling;
	At length it opens, in we go,
	How glad are we to find it so!
	Conquests, thro’ Pains and Dangers, please,
	Much more than those we gain with Ease.
	If you’re dispos’d to take a Seat,
	The Moment that it feels your Weight,
	Nay take the best in all the Room,
	Out go it’s Legs, and down you come.
	Hence learn and see old Age display’d,
	When Strength and Vigour are decay’d,
	The Joints relaxing with their Years;
	Then what are mortal Men, but Chairs.
	The Windows next offend your Sight,
	Now they are dark, now they are light,
	The Shuts a working too and fro,
	With quick Succession come and go.
	So have I seen in human Life,
	The same in an uneasy Wife,
	By Turns, affording Joy and Sorrow,
	Devil to day, and Saint to morrow.
	Now to the Fire, if such there be,
	But now ’tis rather Smoke you see:
	In vain you seek the Poker’s Aid,
	Or Tongs, for they are both mislaid.
	The Bellice, take their batter’d Nose,
	Will serve for Poker, I suppose,
	Now you begin to rake, – a-lack!
	The Grate is tumbled from its Back:
	The Coals upon the Hearth are laid,
	Stay Sir, I’ll run and call the Maid;
	She’ll make our Fire again compleat,
	She knows the Humour of the Grate.
	Deux take your Maid and you together,
	This is cold Comfort in cold Weather.
	Now all you see is well again,
	Come be in Humour Mr. Dean,
	And take the Bellice, use them so –
	These Bellice were not made to blow,
	Their leathern Lungs are in Decay;
	They can’t e’en puff the Smoke away. –
	And is your Rev’rence vex’d at that?
	Get up a-God’s Name, take your Hat –
	Hang ’em say I, that have no Shift;
	Come blow the Fire good Doctor Swift. –
	Trifles like these, if they must teize you,
	Pox take those Fools that strive to please you,
	Therefore no longer be a Quarr’ler,
	Either with me, Sir, or my Parlor.
	If you can relish ought of mine,
	A Bit of Meat, a Glass of Wine,
	You’re welcome to’t and you shall fare,
	As well as dining with the May’r.
	You saucy Scab, you tell me so,
	You Booby Face, I’d have you know,
	I’d rather see your Things in Order,
	Than dine in state with the Recorder.
	For Water I must keep a Clutter,
	Then chide your Wife for stinking Butter
	Or getting such a Deal of Meat,
	As if you’d half the Town to eat;
	That Wife of yours the Devil’s in her –
	I’ve told her of this Way of Dinner,
	Five hundred Times, but all in vain,
	Here comes a Leg of Beef again!
	O that! that Wife of yours wou’d burst –
	Get out and serve the Lodgers first,
	Pox take them all for me – I fret
	So much, I cannot eat my Meat.
	You know I’d rather have a Slice –
	I know Dear Sir, you’re always Nice;
	You’ll see them bring it in a Minute,
	Here comes the Plate, and Slices in it.
	Therefore sit down and take your Place,
	Do you fall to, and I’ll say Grace.
	HENRY CAREY A Lilliputian Ode on their Majesties’ Accession
	Smile, smile,
	Blest isle!
	Grief past,
	At last,
	Halcyon
	Comes on.
	New King,
	Bells ring;
	New Queen,
	Blest scene!
	Britain
	Again
	Revives
	And thrives;
	Fear flies,
	Stocks rise;
	Wealth flows,
	Art grows.
	Strange pack
	Sent back;
	Own folks
	Crack jokes.
	Those out
	May pout;
	Those in
	Will grin.
	Great, small,
	Pleas’d all.
	God send
	No end
	To line
	Divine
	Of George and Caroline.
1728	JOHN GAY from The Beggar’s Opera
	MACHEATH
	Were I laid on Greenland’s Coast,
	And in my Arms embrac’d my Lass;
	Warm amidst eternal Frost,
	Too soon the Half Year’s Night would pass.
	POLLY
	Were I sold on Indian Soil,
	Soon as the burning Day was clos’d,
	I could mock the sultry Toil,
	When on my Charmer’s Breast repos’d.
	MACHEATH
	And I would love you all the Day,
	POLLY
	Every Night would kiss and play,
	MACHEATH
	If with me you’d fondly stray
	POLLY
	Over the Hills and far away.
1731	ALEXANDER POPE from An Epistle to Burlington
	At Timon’s Villa let us pass a day,
	Where all cry out, ‘What sums are thrown away!’
	So proud, so grand, of that stupendous air,
	Soft and Agreeable come never there.
	Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught
	As brings all Brobdignag before your thought.
	To compass this, his building is a Town,
	His pond an Ocean, his parterre a Down:
	Who but must laugh, the Master when he sees,
	A puny insect, shiv’ring at a breeze!
	Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
	The whole, a labour’d Quarry above ground.
	Two Cupids squirt before: a Lake behind
	Improves the keenness of the Northern wind.
	His Gardens next your admiration call,
	On ev’ry side you look, behold the Wall!
	No pleasing Intricacies intervene,
	No artful wildness to perplex the scene;
	Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother,
	And half the platform just reflects the other.
	The suff’ring eye inverted Nature sees,
	Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees,
	With here a Fountain, never to be play’d,
	And there a Summer-house, that knows no shade;
	Here Amphitrite sails thro’ myrtle bowers;
	There Gladiators fight, or die, in flow’rs;
	Un-water’d see the drooping sea-horse mourn,
	And swallows roost in Nilus’ dusty Urn.
	My Lord advances with majestic mien,
	Smit with the mighty pleasure, to be seen:
	But soft – by regular approach – not yet –
	First thro’ the length of yon hot Terrace sweat,
	And when up ten steep slopes you’ve dragg’d your thighs,
	Just at his Study-door he’ll bless your eyes.
	His Study! with what Authors is it stor’d?
	In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord;
	To all their dated Backs he turns you round,
	These Aldus printed, those Du Suëil has bound.
	Lo some are Vellom, and the rest as good
	For all his Lordship knows, but they are Wood.
	For Locke or Milton ’tis in vain to look,
	These shelves admit not any modern book.
	And now the Chapel’s silver bell you hear,
	That summons you to all the Pride of Pray’r:
	Light quirks of Musick, broken and uneven,
	Make the soul dance upon a Jig to Heaven.
	On painted Cielings you devoutly stare,
	Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
	On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
	And bring all Paradise before your eye.
	To rest, the Cushion and soft Dean invite,
	Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.
	But hark! the chiming Clocks to dinner call;
	A hundred footsteps scrape the marble Hall:
	The rich Buffet well-colour’d Serpents grace,
	And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face.
	Is this a dinner? this a Genial room?
	No, ’tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb.
	A solemn Sacrifice, perform’d in state,
	You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
	So quick retires each flying course, you’d swear
	Sancho’s dread Doctor and his Wand were there.
	Between each Act the trembling salvers ring,
	From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King.
	In plenty starving, tantaliz’d in state,
	And complaisantly help’d to all I hate,
	Treated, caress’d, and tir’d, I take my leave,
	Sick of his civil Pride from Morn to Eve;
	I curse such lavish cost, and little skill,
	And swear no Day was ever past so ill.
	Yet hence the Poor are cloath’d, the Hungry fed;
	Health to himself, and to his Infants bread
	The Lab’rer bears: What his hard Heart denies,
	His charitable Vanity supplies.
	Another age shall see the golden Ear
	Imbrown the Slope, and nod on the Parterre,
	Deep Harvests bury all his pride has plann’d,
	And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.
	JONATHAN SWIFT The Day of Judgement
	With a Whirl of Thought oppress’d,
	I sink from Reverie to Rest.
	An horrid Vision seiz’d my Head,
	I saw the Graves give up their Dead.
	Jove, arm’d with Terrors, burst the Skies,
	And Thunder roars, and Light’ning flies!
	Amaz’d, confus’d, its Fate unknown,
	The World stands trembling at his Throne.
	While each pale Sinner hangs his Head,
	Jove, nodding, shook the Heav’ns, and said,
	‘Offending Race of Human Kind,
	By Nature, Reason, Learning, blind;
	You who thro’ Frailty step’d aside,
	And you who never fell – thro’ Pride;
	You who in different Sects have shamm’d,
	And come to see each.other damn’d;
	(So some Folks told you, but they knew
	No more of Jove’s Designs than you)
	The World’s mad Business now is o’er,
	And I resent these Pranks no more.
	I to such Blockheads set my Wit!
	I damn such Fools! – Go, go, you’re bit.’
	JONATHAN SWIFT An Epigram on Scolding
	Great Folks are of a finer Mold;
	Lord! how politely they can scold;
	While a coarse English Tongue will itch,
	For Whore and Rogue; and Dog and Bitch.
	(1746)
1732	JONATHAN SWIFT Mary the Cook-Maid’s Letter to Dr. Sheridan
	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 does not become a Man of your Cloth,
	I would not give such Language to a Dog, faith and troth.
	Yes; you call’d my Master a Knave: Fie Mr. Sheridan, ’tis a Shame
	For a Parson, who shou’d 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-shank’d hoddy doddy.
	And now whereby I find you would fain make an Excuse,
	Because my Master one Day in anger call’d you Goose.
	Which, and I am sure I have been his Servant four Years since October,
	And he never call’d me worse than Sweet-heart drunk or sober:
	Not that I know his Reverence was ever concern’d to my knowledge,
	Tho’ you and your Come-rogues keep him out so late in your wicked Colledge.
	You say you will eat Grass on his Grave: a Christian eat Grass!
	Whereby you now confess your self to be a Goose or an Ass:
	But that’s as much as to say, that my Master should die before ye,
	Well, well, that’s as God pleases, and I don’t believe that’s a true Story,
	And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my Master; what care I?
	And I don’t care who knows it, ’tis all one to Mary.
	Every body knows, that I love to tell Truth and shame the Devil,
	I am but a poor Servant, but I think Gentle folks should be civil.
	Besides, you found fault with our Vittles one Day that you was here,
	I remember it was upon a Tuesday, of all Days in the Year.
	And Saunders the Man says, you are always jesting and mocking,
	Mary said he, (one Day, as I was mending my Master’s Stocking,)
	My Master is so fond of that Minister that keeps the School;
	I thought my Master a wise Man, but that Man makes him a Fool.
	Saunders said I, I would rather than a Quart of Ale,
	He would come into our Kitchin, and I would pin a Dishclout to his Tail.
	And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this Letter,
	For I write but a sad Scrawl, but my Sister Marget she writes better.
	Well, but I must run and make the Bed before my Master comes from Pray’rs,
	And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up Stairs:
	Whereof I cou’d say more to your Verses, if I could write written hand,
	And so I remain in a civil way, your Servant to command,
	Mary.
1733	LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU [A Summary of Lord Lyttleton’s ‘Advice to a lady’]
	Be plain in Dress and sober in your Diet;
	In short my Dearee, kiss me, and be quiet.
	ALEXANDER POPE from An Epistle to Bathurst
	[Sir Balaam]
	Where London’s column, pointing at the skies,
	Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lyes;
	There dwelt a Citizen of sober fame,
	A plain good man, and Balaam was his name;
	Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;
	His word would pass for more than he was worth.
	One solid dish his week-day meal affords,
	An added pudding solemniz’d the Lord’s:
	Constant at Church, and Change; his gains were sure,
	His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.
	The Dev’l was piqu’d such saintship to behold,
	And long’d to tempt him like good Job of old:
	But Satan now is wiser than of yore,
	And tempts by making rich, not making poor.
	Rouz’d by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep
	The surge, and plunge his Father in the deep;
	Then full against his Cornish lands they roar,
	And two rich ship-wrecks bless the lucky shore.
	Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,
	He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes:
	‘Live like yourself,’ was soon my Lady’s word;
	And lo! two puddings smoak’d upon the board.
	Asleep and naked as an Indian lay,
	An honest factor stole a Gem away:
	He pledg’d it to the knight; the knight had wit,
	So kept the Diamond, but the rogue was bit.
	Some scruple rose, but thus he eas’d his thought,
	‘I’ll now give six-pence where I gave a groat,
	‘Where once I went to church, I’ll now go twice –
	‘And am so clear too of all other vice.’
	The Tempter saw his time; the work he ply’d;
	Stocks and Subscriptions pour on ev’ry side,
	‘Till all the Daemon makes his full descent,
	In one abundant show’r of Cent. per Cent.,
	Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole,
	Then dubs Director, and secures his soul.
	Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit,
	Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit,
	What late he call’d a Blessing, now was Wit,
	And God’s good Providence, a lucky Hit.
	Things change their titles, as our manners turn:
	His Compting-house employ’d the Sunday-morn:
	Seldom at Church (’twas such a busy life)
	But duly sent his family and wife.
	There (so the Dev’l ordain’d) one Christmas-tide
	My good old Lady catch’d a cold, and dy’d.
	A Nymph of Quality admires our Knight;
	He marries, bows at Court, and grows polite:
	Leaves the dull Cits, and joins (to please the fair)
	The well-bred cuckolds in St. James’s air:
	First, for his Son a gay Commission buys,
	Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies:
	His daughter flaunts a Viscount’s tawdry wife;
	She bears a Coronet and P-x for life.
	In Britain’s Senate he a seat obtains,
	And one more Pensioner St. Stephen gains.
	My Lady falls to play; so bad her chance,
	He must repair it; takes a bribe from France;
	The House impeach him; Coningsby harangues;
	The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs:
	Wife, son, and daughter, Satan, are thy own,
	His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the Crown:
	The Devil and the King divide the prize,
	And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.
	GEORGE FAREWELL Quaerè
	Whether at Doomsday (tell, ye reverend wise)
	My friend Priapus with myself shall rise?
1734	JONATHAN SWIFT A Beautiful Young Nymph Going to Bed
	Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane,
	For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain;
	Never did Covent Garden boast
	So bright a batter’d, strolling Toast;
	No drunken Rake to pick her up,
	No Cellar where on Tick to sup;
	Returning at the Midnight Hour;
	Four Stories climbing to her Bow’r;
	Then, seated on a three-legg’d Chair,
	Takes off her artificial Hair:
	Now, picking out a Crystal Eye,
	She wipes it clean, and lays it by.
	Her Eye-Brows from a Mouse’s Hyde,
	Stuck on with Art on either Side,
	Pulls off with Care, and first displays ’em,
	Then in a Play-Book smoothly lays ’em.
	Now dextrously her Plumpers draws,
	That serve to fill her hollow Jaws.
	Untwists a Wire; and from her Gums
	A Set of Teeth completely comes.
	Pulls out the Rags contriv’d to prop
	Her flabby Dugs and down they drop.
	Proceeding on, the lovely Goddess
	Unlaces next her Steel-Rib’d Bodice;
	Which by the Operator’s Skill,
	Press down the Lumps, the Hollows fill,
	Up goes her Hand, and off she slips
	The Bolsters that supply her Hips.
	With gentlest Touch, she next explores
	Her Shankers, Issues, running Sores,
	Effects of many a sad Disaster;
	And then to each applies a Plaister.
	But must, before she goes to Bed,
	Rub off the Dawbs of White and Red;
	And smooth the Furrows in her Front,
	With greasy Paper stuck upon’t.
	She takes a Bolus e’er she sleeps;
	And then between two Blankets creeps.
	With Pains of Love tormented lies;
	Or if she chance to close her Eyes,
	Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams,
	And feels the Lash, and faintly screams;
	Or, by a faithless Bully drawn,
	At some Hedge-Tavern lies in Pawn;
	Or to Jamaica seems transported,
	Alone, and by no Planter courted;
	Or, near Fleet-Ditch’s oozy Brinks,
	Surrounded with a Hundred Stinks,
	Belated, seems on watch to lye,
	And snap some Cully passing by;
	Or, struck with Fear, her Fancy runs
	On Watchmen, Constables and Duns,
	From whom she meets with frequent Rubs;
	But, never from Religious Clubs;
	Whose Favour she is sure to find,
	Because she pays them all in Kind.
	CORINNA wakes. A dreadful Sight!
	Behold the Ruins of the Night!
	A wicked Rat her Plaister stole,
	Half eat, and dragg’d it to his Hole.
	The Crystal Eye, alas, was miss’t;
	And Puss had on her Plumpers pisst.
	A Pigeon pick’d her Issue-Peas;
	And Shock her Tresses fill’d with Fleas.
	The Nymph, tho’ in this mangled Plight,
	Must ev’ry Morn her Limbs unite.
	But how shall I describe her Arts
	To recollect the scatter’d Parts?
	Or shew the Anguish, Toil, and Pain,
	Of gath’ring up herself again?
	The bashful Muse will never bear
	In such a Scene to interfere.
	Corinna in the Morning dizen’d,
	Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison’d.
1735	ALEXANDER POPE from Of the Characters of Women: An Epistle to a Lady
	Nothing so true as what you once let fall,
	‘Most Women have no Characters at all’.
	Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
	And best distinguish’d by black, brown, or fair.
	How many pictures of one Nymph we view,
	All how unlike each other, all how true!
	(… )
	Papillia, wedded to her doating spark,
	Sighs for the shades – ‘How charming is a Park!’
	A Park is purchas’d, but the Fair he sees
	All bath’d in tears – ‘Oh odious, odious Trees!’
	Ladies, like variegated Tulips, show,
	’Tis to their Changes that their charms they owe;
	Their happy Spots the nice admirer take,
	Fine by defect, and delicately weak.
	‘Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarm’d,
	Aw’d without Virtue, without Beauty charm’d;
	Her Tongue bewitch’d as odly as her Eyes,
	Less Wit than Mimic, more a Wit than wise:
	Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had,
	Was just not ugly, and was just not mad;
	Yet ne’er so sure our passion to create,
	As when she touch’d the brink of all we hate.
	(… )
	‘Yet Cloe sure was form’d without a spot –’
	Nature in her then err’d not, but forgot.
	‘With ev’ry pleasing, ev’ry prudent part,
	Say, what can Cloe want?’ – she wants a Heart.
	She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought;
	But never, never, reach’d one gen’rous Thought.
	Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour,
	Content to dwell in Decencies for ever.
	So very reasonable, so unmov’d,
	As never yet to love, or to be lov’d.
	She, while her Lover pants upon her breast,
	Can mark the figures on an Indian chest;
	And when she sees her Friend in deep despair,
	Observes how much a Chintz exceeds Mohair.
	Forbid it Heav’n, a Favour or a Debt
	She e’er should cancel – but she may forget.
	Safe is your Secret still in Cloe’s ear;
	But none of Cloe’s shall you ever hear.
	Of all her Dears she never slander’d one,
	But cares not if a thousand are undone.
	Would Cloe know if you’re alive or dead?
	She bids her Footman put it in her head.
	Cloe is prudent – would you too be wise?
	Then never break your heart when Cloe dies.
	(… )
	Men, some to Bus’ness, some to Pleasure take;
	But ev’ry Woman is at heart a Rake:
	Men, some to Quiet, some to public Strife;
	But ev’ry Lady would be Queen for life.
	Yet mark the fate of a whole Sex of Queens!
	Pow’r all their end, but Beauty all the means.
	In Youth they conquer, with so wild a rage,
	As leaves them scarce a Subject in their Age:
	For foreign glory, foreign joy, they roam;
	No thought of Peace of Happiness at home.
	But Wisdom’s Triumph is well-tim’d Retreat,
	As hard a science to the Fair as Great!
	Beauties, like Tyrants, old and friendless grown,
	Yet hate to rest, and dread to be alone,
	Worn out in public, weary ev’ry eye,
	Nor leave one sigh behind them when they die.
	Pleasures the sex, as children Birds, pursue,
	Still out of reach, yet never out of view,
	Sure, if they catch, to spoil the Toy at most,
	To covet flying, and regret when lost:
	At last, to follies Youth could scarce defend,
	’Tis half their Age’s prudence to pretend;
	Asham’d to own they gave delight before,
	Reduc’d to feign it, when they give no more:
	As Hags hold Sabbaths, less for joy than spight,
	So these their merry, miserable Night;
	Still round and round the Ghosts of Beauty glide,
	And haunt the places where their Honour dy’d.
	See how the World its Veterans rewards!
	A Youth of frolicks, an old Age of Cards,
	Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,
	Young without Lovers, old without a Friend,
	A Fop their Passion, but their Prize a Sot,
	Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot!
	ALEXANDER POPE from An Epistle from Mr. Pope, to Dr. Arbuthnot
	You think this cruel? take it for a rule,
	No creature smarts so little as a Fool.
	Let Peals of Laughter, Codrus! round thee break,
	Thou unconcern’d canst hear the mighty Crack.
	Pit, Box and Gall’ry in convulsions hurl’d,
	Thou stand’st unshook amidst a bursting World.
	Who shames a Scribler? break one cobweb thro’,
	He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew;
	Destroy his Fib, or Sophistry; in vain,
	The Creature’s at his dirty work again;
	Thron’d in the Centre of his thin designs;
	Proud of a vast Extent of flimzy lines.
	Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
	Lost the arch’d eye-brow, or Parnassian sneer?
	And has not Colly still his Lord, and Whore?
	His Butchers Henley, his Free-masons Moor?
	Does not one Table Bavius still admit?
	Still to one Bishop Philips seem a Wit?
	Still Sapho – ‘Hold! for God-sake – you’ll offend:
	No Names – be calm – learn Prudence of a Friend:
	I too could write, and I am twice as tall,
	But Foes like these!’ – One Flatt’rer’s worse than all;
	Of all mad Creatures, if the Learn’d are right,
	It is the Slaver kills, and not the Bite.
	A Fool quite angry is quite innocent;
	Alas! ’tis ten times worse when they repent.
	(… )
	Peace to all such! but were there One whose fires
	True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires,
	Blest with each Talent and each Art to please,
	And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
	Shou’d such a man, too fond to rule alone,
	Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
	View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
	And hate for Arts that caus’d himself to rise;
	Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
	And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
	Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
	Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
	Alike reserv’d to blame, or to commend,
	A tim’rous foe, and a suspicious friend,
	Dreading ev’n fools, by Flatterers besieg’d,
	And so obliging that he ne’er oblig’d;
	Like Cato, give his little Senate laws,
	And sit attentive to his own applause;
	While Wits and Templers ev’ry sentence raise,
	And wonder with a foolish face of praise.
	Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?
	Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!
	(… )
	A Lash like mine no honest man shall dread,
	But all such babling blockheads in his stead.
	Let Sporus tremble – ‘What? that Thing of silk,
	Sporus, that mere white Curd of Ass’s milk?
	Satire or Sense alas! can Sporus feel?
	Who breaks a Butterfly upon a Wheel?’
	Yet let me flap this Bug with gilded wings,
	This painted Child of Dirt that stinks and stings;
	Whose Buzz the Witty and the Fair annoys,
	Yet Wit ne’er tastes, and Beauty ne’er enjoys,
	So well-bred Spaniels civilly delight
	In mumbling of the Game they dare not bite.
	Eternal Smiles his Emptiness betray,
	As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.
	Whether in florid Impotence he speaks,
	And, as the Prompter breathes, the Puppet squeaks;
	Or at the Ear of Eve, familiar Toad,
	Half Froth, half Venom, spits himself abroad,
	In Puns, or Politicks, or Tales, or Lyes,
	Or Spite, or Smut, or Rymes, or Blasphemies.
	His Wit all see-saw between that and this,
	Now high, now low, now Master up, now Miss,
	And he himself one vile Antithesis.
	Amphibious Thing! that acting either Part,
	The trifling Head, or the corrupted Heart!
	Fop at the Toilet, Flatt’rer at the Board,
	Now trips a Lady, and now struts a Lord.
	Eve’s Tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest,
	A Cherub’s face, a Reptile all the rest;
	Beauty that shocks you, Parts that none will trust,
	Wit that can creep, and Pride that licks the dust.
	ALEXANDER POPE
	EPITAPH.
	Intended for Sir ISAAC NEWTON,
	In Westminster-Abbey.
	ISAACUS NEWTONIUS
	Quem Immortalem,
	Testantur Tempus, Natura, Cœlum:
	Mortalem
	Hoc Marmor fatetur.
	Nature, and Nature’s Laws lay hid in Night.
	God said, Let Newton be! and All was Light.
	JOHN DYER My Ox Duke
	’Twas on a summer noon, in Stainsford mead
	New mown and tedded, while the weary swains,
	Louting beneath an oak, their toils relieved;
	And some with wanton tale the nymphs beguiled,
	And some with song, and some with kisses rude;
	Their scythes hung o’er their heads: when my brown ox,
	Old labourer Duke, in awkward haste I saw
	Run stumbling through the field to reach the shade
	Of an old open barn, whose gloomy floor
	The lash of sounding flails had long forgot.
	In vain his eager haste: sudden old Duke
	Stopped; a soft ridge of snow-white little pigs
	Along the sacred threshold sleeping lay.
	Burnt in the beam, and stung with swarming flies,
	He stood tormented on the shadow’s edge:
	What should he do? What sweet forbearance held
	His heavy foot from trampling on the weak,
	To gain his wishes? Hither, hither all,
	Ye vain, ye proud! see, humble heaven attends;
	The fly-teased brute with gentle pity stays,
	And shields the sleeping young. O gracious Lord!
	Aid of the feeble, cheerer of distress,
	In his low labyrinth each small reptile’s guide!
	God of unnumbered worlds! Almighty power!
	Assuage our pride. Be meek, thou child of man:
	Who gives thee life, gives every worm to live,
	Thy kindred of the dust. – Long waiting stood
	The good old labourer, in the burning beam,
	And breathed upon them, nosed them, touched them soft,
	With lovely fear to hurt their tender sides;
	Again soft touched them; gently moved his head
	From one to one; again, with touches soft,
	He breathed them o’er, till gruntling waked and stared
	The merry little young, their tails upcurled,
	And gambolled off with scattered flight. Then sprung
	The honest ox, rejoiced, into the shade.
	(1855)