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For not the desk with silver nails,

Nor bureau of expense,
Nor standish well japann'd, avails

To writing of good sense.

Hear how a ghost in dead of night,

With saucer eyes of fire,
In woful wise did sore affright

A wit and courtly 'squire.

Rare imp of Phæbus, hopeful youth!

Like puppy tame, that uses To fetch and carry in his mouth

The works of all the Muses.

Ah! why did he write poetry,

That hereto was so civil; And sell his soul for vanity

To rhyming and the devil ?

A desk he had of curious work,

With glittering studs about ; Within the same did Sandys lurk,

Though Ovid lay without.

Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought,

Forth popp'd the sprite so thin, And from the keyhole bolted out,

All upright as a pin.

With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,

And ruff composed most duly,
This 'squire he dropp'd his pen full soon,

While as the light burnt bluely.

Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandy's sprite,

Write on, nor let me scare ye; Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right,

To Budgel seek or Carey.

I hear the beat of Jacob's * drums,

Poor Ovid finds no quarter! See first the merry P-t comes

In haste without his garter.

Then lords and lordlings, 'squires and knights,

Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers : Garth at St. James's, and at White's,

Beats up for volunteers.

What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,

Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan, Tom Burnet, or Tom D'Urfey may,

John Dunton, Steele, or any one.

If justice Philips' costive head

Some frigid rhymes disburses : They shall like Persian tales be read,

And glad both babes and nurses.

* Old Jacob Tonson, the editor of the Metamorphoses. † Pembroke, probably.

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,
Shall join with F-in one accord,

And be like Tate and Brady.

Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen;

pray, 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 vapourTo 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."*


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 my heart in wondrous wise alarm’d,
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-

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. Warlon.

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.

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