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“Or shoots he folly as it flies ?
Or catches manners as they rise ?"
Or urged by unquench'd native heat,
Does St. John Greenwich sports repeat ? 10
Where (emulous of Chartres' fame)
Even Chartres' self is scarce a name.

To you (the all-envied gift of heaven)
The indulgent gods, unask'd, have given
A form complete in every part,
And, to enjoy that gift, the art.


What could a tender mother's care
Wish better, to her favourite heir,
Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,
A stock of health, and golden showers,
And graceful fluency of speech,
Precepts before unknown to teach ?


Amidst thy various ebbs of fear,
And gleaming hope, and black despair,


Ver. 10. Does St. John Greenwich, &c.]

“ An tacitam silvas inter reptare salubres ?" Ver. 13. To you, &c.]

66 Di tibi formam,
Di tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi."
Ver. 17. What could, &c.
“Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno,

Quam sapere, et fari posset quæ sentiat, et cui
Gratia, fama, valetudo contingat abunde,

non deficiente crumena ?" Ver. 23. Amidst, &c.]

“ Inter spem, curamque, timores inter et iras.”


Yet let thy friend this truth impart,
A truth I tell with bleeding heart,
(In justice for your labours past)
That every day shall be your last;
That every hour you

life renew
Is to your injured country due.


In spite of fears, of mercy spite, My genius still must rail, and write. Haste to thy Twick'nham's safe retreat, And mingle with the grumbling great; There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find 35 The rhyming bubbler of mankind; There (objects of our mutual hate) We'll ridicule both church and state.


Ver. 28. That every day, &c.]

“Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum.

Me pinguem, et nitidum bene curata cute vises,
Cum ridere voles Epicuri de grege porcum.”


[EGBERT SANGER served his apprenticeship with Jacob Tonson, and succeeded Bernard Lintot in his shop at Middle Temple Gate, Fleet-street. Lintot printed Ozell's Translation of Perrault's Characters, and Sanger his translation of Boileau's Lutrin, recommended by Mr. Rowe, anno 1709.]


Ozell, at Sanger's call invoked his muse,
For who to sing for Sanger could refuse?
His numbers such as Sanger's self might use.
Reviving Perrault, murdering Boileau, he
Slander'd the ancients first, then Wycherley;
Which yet not much that old bard's anger raised,
Since those were slander'd most whom Ozell praised.
Nor had the gentle satire caused complaining,
Had not sage Rowe pronounced it entertaining;
How great must be the judgment of that writer,
Who the Plain Dealer damns, and prints the Biter.



[Anna Maria Gumley, daughter of John Gumley, of Isleworth, was married to Pulteney, who received with her a very large fortune.

Her father gained his fortune by a glass manufactory; upon which circumstance, though hitherto unexplained, the force and elegance of this severe but pleasing composition turns.

These lines were suppressed, as Pope afterwards received great civilities from Pulteney.]


With scornful mien, and various toss of air, ,
Fantastic, vain, and insolently fair,
Grandeur intoxicates her giddy brain,
She looks ambition, and she moves disdain.
Far other carriage graced her virgin life,
But charming G-y's lost in P-y's wife.
Not greater arrogance in him we find,
And this conjunction swells at least her mind.
O could the sire, renown'd in glass, produce
One faithful mirror for his daughter's use !
Wherein she might her haughty errors trace,
And by reflection learn to mend her face:
The wonted sweetness to her form restore,
Be what she was, and charm mankind once more!



Dear, damn'd, distracting town, farewell!

Thy fools no more I'll teaze;

To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd

Till the third watchman's toll; Let Jervas gratis paint, and Frowde

Save three-pence and his soul.

Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery

On every learned sot;
And Garth, the best good Christian he,

Although he knows it not.

Lintot, farewell ! thy bard must go;

Farewell, unhappy Tonson ! Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe,

Lean Philips, and fat Johnson.

Why should I stay? Both parties rage;

My vixen mistress squalls ; The wits in envious feuds engage;

And Homer (damn him!) calls.

The love of arts lies cold and dead

In Halifax's urn;
And not one Muse of all he fed,

grace to mourn.

yet the

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