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Let Warwick's Muse with Ash--t join,
And Ozel's with Lord Hervey's, Tickel and Addison combine,
And Pope translate with Jervas.
L- himself, that lively lord,
Who bows to every lady,
And be like Tate and Brady.
Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen;
where can the hurt lie? Since you have brains as well as men,
As witness Lady Wortley.
Now, Tonson, list thy forces all,
Review them and tell noses : For to poor Ovid shall befal
A strange metamorphosis;
A metamorphosis more strange
Than all his books can vapour“ To what (quoth 'squire) shall Ovid change ?"
Quoth Sandys, “ To waste paper."
[Curll says this character was intended to ridicule a very worthy
gentleman, probably Ambrose Philips.]
Close to the best known author UMBRA sits, The constant index to old Button's wits. “ Who's here?" cries Umbra: “Only Johnson."*
-"0! Your slave," and exit; but returns with Rowe: “ Dear Rowe, let's sit and talk of tragedies :" Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies. Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel, And in a moment fastens upon Steele; But cries as soon, “Dear Dick, I must be
gone, For, if I know his tread, here's Addison.' Says Addison to Steele, “ 'Tis time to go:" Pope to the closet steps aside with Rowe. Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd pickle, E’en sits him down, and writes to honest Tickell.
Fool! 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam; Know, sense like charity “ begins at home.”
* Charles Johnson, a second rate dramatist, and great frequenter of Button's. Pope elsewhere classes him with Philips : “ Lean Philips and fat Johnson.” Farewell to London.
SYLVIA, A FRAGMENT.
my heart in wondrous wise alarmid, Awed without sense, and without beauty charm’d: But some odd graces and some flights she had, Was just not ugly, and was just not mad: Her tongue still ran on credit from her eyes, More pert than witty, more a wit than wise: Good-nature, she declared it, was her scorn, Though, 'twas by that alone she could be borne : Affronting all, yet fond of a good name; A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame: Now coy, and studious in no point to fall, Now all agog for D-y at a ball : Now deep in Taylor, and the Book of Martyrs, Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres.
Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman's in her soul a rake. Frail, feverish sex; their fit now chills, now burns : Atheism and superstition rule by turns ; And a mere heathen in the carnal part, Is still a sad good Christian at her heart.*
* I have been informed, on good authority, that this character was designed for the then Duchess of Hamilton. Warton.
Swift describes this lady as handsome, airy, and violent tempered, with abundance of wit and spirit. See Swift's Works, vol. iii. p. 118.
Sir W. Scott.
TO LADY WINCHELSEA.
OCCASIONED BY FOUR SATIRICAL VERSES ON WOMEN WITS, IN THE
RAPE OF THE LOCK.
In vain you boast poetic names of yore,
A bishop by his neighbours hated
ON THE FEUDS ABOUT HANDEL AND BONONCINI.
STRANGE! all this difference should be
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 starved, and the poet
THE BALANCE OF EUROPE.
Now Europe balanced, neither side prevails ; For nothing's left in either of the scales.
APPLIED TO F. C. Here Francis Chartres lies*—-be civil! The rest God knows-perhaps the Devil. • Thus applied by Mr. Pope : " Here lies Lord Coningsby.”