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While Wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise,
And wouder with a foolish face of praise
What pity, Heaven ! if such a man there be;
Who would not weep, if ADDISON* were he !

MACER.

FIRST PRINTED IN 1727,

When simple Macer,t now of bigh renown,
First sought a poet's fortune in the town;
'Twas all th' ambition his great soul could feel,
To wear red stockings, I and to dine with Steele.
Some ends of verse his betters might afford,
And

gave the harmless fellow a good word. Set up with these, he ventur'd on the town, And in a borrow'd play outdid poor

Crown.
There be stopt short, nor since has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little ;
Like stunted hidebound trees, that just have got
Sufficient

sap

at once to bear and rot.

* Thus also originally stood this concluding line, in which is well known the name was altered 10 Atticus ; a circumstance which has occasioned a considerable controversy, too long to be here introduced; but for which the curious reader is referred to the second volume of tbe Biographia Britannica ; to Bishop Hurd's Life of Bishop Warburton ; and to the Notes of Dr. Warton, in his edition of Pope, 1797, vol. iv. p. 34. N.

† Said to be the character of James Moore Smyth, author of "The Rival Modes, a comedy, in 1726.” He pilfered verses from Pope; and joined in a political paper with the duke of Wharton, called, " Tlie loquisitor," written with such violence against government, that he was soon obliged to drop it. Dr. WARTON.

| I remember old Demoivre told me, about fifty years ago, that all he remembered of Corneille was, that he had seen him in red stockings at the theatre, Dr. WARTON.

Now he begs verse, * and what he gets commends,
Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.

So some coarse country wech, almost decay’d,
Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid :
Aukward and supple each devoir to pay,
She flatters her good lady twice a day;
Thought wond'rous honest, tho' of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her simplicity :
In a translated suit then tries the town,
With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own;
But just endur'd the winter she began,
And jo four months a batter'd harridan.
Now nothing's left; but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.

SYLVIA,F A FRAGMENT.

SYLVIA my heart in wondrous wise alarm’d,
Aw'd without sense, and without beauty charm’d :
But some odd graces and some flights she had,
Was just pot 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 declar'd it, was her scorn,
Tho' '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 :

* He requested, by public advertisements, the aid of the ingeniour, to make up a Miscellany, in 1713, H.

† This fragment was, with some variation, introduced by Mr. Pope into the second of his moral essays, “Or the Characters of Women.' N

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 bus'ness, some to pleasure take;
But ev'ry woman's in her soul a rake.
Frail fev'rish 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.*

IMPROMPTU.

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,
And cite those Sapplioes we admire no more :
Fate doom'd the fall of every female wit;
But doom'd it then, when first Ardelia writ.
Of all examples by the world confest,
I knew Ardelia could not quote the best ;
Who, like her mistress on Britannia's throne,
Fights and subdues in quarrels not her own.
To write their praise you but in vain essay:;
E’en while you write, you take that praise away :
Light to the stars the sun does thus restore,
But shines himself till they are seen no more.

* I have been informed, on good authority, that this charac er was designed for the then duchess of Hamilton. Dr. WARTON,

EPIGRAM.

A BISHOP by his neighbours hated
Has cause to wish himself translated;
But why should Hough desire translation,
Lov'd and esteem'd by all the nation ?
Yet, if it be the old man's case,
I'll lay my life I know the place:
'Tis where God sept some that adore him,
And whither Enoch went before him. ,

TO MRS. MARTHA BLOUNT.

SENT ON HER BIRTH DAY, JUNE 15.

O, BE thou blest with all that Heaven can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend ! Not with those toys the female race admire, Riches that vex, and vanities that tire; Not as the world its petty slaves rewards, A youth of frolicks, an old age of cards; Fair to do 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 !

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content, And the gay conscience of a life well spent, Calin ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace, Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face: Let day improve on day, and year on year, Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear;

Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
Jo some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy;
Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tonib,
And wake to raptures in a life to come!

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I SAID to my heart, between sleeping and waking, Thou wild thing, that always art leaping or acbing, What black, brown, or fair, in what clime, in what da

tion, By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-pat-ation ?

Thus accus'd, the wild thing gave this sober reply:
See the heart without motion, tho’ Celia pass by!
Not the beauty she has, or the wit that she borrows,
Gives the eye any joys, or the heart any sorrows.

When our Sappho appears, she whose wit 's so refin’d,
I am forc'd to applaud with the rest of mankind;
Whatever she says, is with spirit and fire;
Ev'ry word I attend; but I only admire.

Ever gazing

Prudentia as vainly would put in her claim,

on Heaven, tho' man is her aim : 'Tis love, pot devotion, that turus up her

eyes: Those stars of this world are 100 good for the skies.

But Chloe so lively, so easy, so fair,
Her wit so genteel, without art, without care;

* The earl of Peterborough. Hi

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