Fame.

WHAT's fame with

THAT's fame with men, by custom

the nation

Is call'd in women only reputation: About them both why keep we such a pother?

Part you with one,

other.

and I'll renounce the

* VERSES

To be placed under the picture of England's arch-poet; containing a compleat catalogue of his works.

SEE

a

EE who ne'er was or will be half-read! Who first fung Arthur, then fung b Alfred;

Prais'd great Eliza in God's

anger,

d

"Till all true Englishmen cry'd, hang her! Made William's virtues wipe the bare a--And hang'd up Marlb'rough in arras: Then hifs'd from earth, grew heav'nly quite;

e

Made ev'ry reader curfe the light;

a Two heroick poems in

folio, twenty books.

b Heroick poems in twelve books.

c Heroick poems in folio, ten books.

d Inftructions to Vanderbank, a tapestry-weaver.

с

Hymn to the light.

VERSES ON ENGLAND'S ARCH-POET. 269 Maul'd human wit in one thick f fatire; Next in three books fent & human nature, Undid h Creation at a jerk,

i

And of Redemption made damn'd work. Then took his muse at once, and dipt her

Full in the middle of the fcripture: What wonders there the man grown old did!

Sternbold himself he out-Sternbolded:

k

Made David seem so mad and freakish, All thought him juft what thought king

Achish.

No mortal read his 1 Solomon,

But judg'd R'oboam his own fon.
Mofes m he ferv'd as Mofes Pharaoh,
And Deborah as fhe Siferah;

What punishment all this must follow? Shall Arthur ufe him like king Tollo?

Shall David as Uriah flay him?
Or dext'rous Deb'rah Siferah him?
Or fhall Elixa lay a plot

To treat him like her fifter Scot?
Shall William dub his better end * ?
Or Marlb' rough serve him like a friend?
No, none of thefe---heav'n spare his life!
But fend him, honeft Job, thy wife.

Dr. SWIFT to Mr. POPE, While he was writing the Dunciad.

POPE

COPE has the talent well to speak,
But not to reach the ear;

His loudeft voice is low and weak,
The Dean too deaf to hear.

A while they on each other look,
Then diff'rent studies chufe ;
The Dean fits plodding on a book,
Pope walks, and courts the muse.

Now backs of letters, though defign'd
For those who more will need 'em,
Are fill'd with hints, and interlin'd,
Himself can hardly read 'em.

* Kick him on the breech, not knight him on the shoulder.

Each

Each atom by some other ftruck
All turns and motions tries:
Till in a lump together ftuck,
Behold a poem rife!

Yet to the Dean his share allot;

He claims it by a canon; That without which a thing is not, Is, caufa fine qua non.

Thus, * Pope, in vain you boast your wit ; For, had our deaf divine

Been for

your conversation fit,

You had not writ a line.

Of prelate thus for preaching fam'd
The fexton reafon'd well;
And justly half the merit claim'd,
Because he rang the bell.

* A polite turn is given to his letter to Dr. Sheridan this incident by Mr. Pope in Vol. XII. Letter 32.

* BOUNCE

An epiftle from a dog at Twickenham to a dog at court.

To thee, fweet Fop, these lines I

то

fend,

Who, though no spaniel, am a friend.
Though once my tail, in wanton play
Now frisking this and then that way,
Chanc'd with a touch of just the tip
To hurt your lady-lap-dog-fhip:

Yet thence to think I'd bite your head off!
Sure Bounce is one you never read of.
Fop! you can dance, and make a leg,
Can fetch and carry, cringe and beg,
And (what's the top of all your tricks)
Can ftoop to pick up ftrings and sticks.
We country dogs love nobler fport,
And scorn the pranks of dogs at court.
Fie, naughty Fop! where-e'er you come,
To fart and pifs about the room,
To lay your head in ev'ry lap,

And, when they think not of you---fnap !
The worst that envy, or that spite

E'er faid of me, is, I can bite;

That idle gypfies, rogues in rags,

Who poke at me, can make no brags;

And