POLLIO must needs to penitence excite; For see, his scarves are rich, and gloves are white.

Behold his notes display'd, his body rais'd:
With what a zeal he labours to be prais'd!
No stubborn sinner able to withstand

The force and reasoning of his wig and band:
Much better pleas'd, so pious his intent,
With five that laugh than fifty who repent.
On moral duties when his tongue refines,
Tully and Plato are his best divines:
What Matthew says, or Mark, the proof but
small;

What Locke or Clarke asserts, good scripture all.

Touch'd with each weakness which he does arraign,

With vanity he talks against the vain ;
With ostentation does to meekness guide,
Proud of his periods levell'd against pride;
Ambitiously the love of glory slights,

And damns the love of fame for which he writes.

THE Latin word for cold, one ask'd his friend; It is, said he 'tis at my finger's end.

WHILE malice, Pope, denies thy page
Its own celestial fire;

While critics and while bards in rage,

Admiring, won't admire :

While wayward pens thy works assail,
And envious tongues decry;

These times though many a friend bewail,
These times bewail not I.

But when the world's loud praise is thine, And spleen no more shall blame; When with thy Homer thou shalt shine In one establish'd fame :

When none shall rail, and ev'ry lay

Devote a wreath to thee:
That day (for come it will)—that day
Shall I lament to see.

Written on the Bed-chamber Door of Charles II.
ROCHESTER.

HERE lies our sovereign lord the King,
Whose word no man relies on;

He never says a foolish thing,

Nor ever does a wise one.

To Phyllis.

THAT little patch upon your face
Would seem a foil on one less fair;
On you it hides a killing grace,
And you in pity plac'd it there.

By PRIOR.

As after noon, one summer's day,
Venus stood bathing in a river ;
Cupid a-shooting went that way,
New-strung his bow, new-fill'd his quiver.
With skill he chose his sharpest dart;

With all his might his bow he drew:
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart
The too well guided arrow flew.
I faint! I die! the goddess cried:

O cruel! couldst thou find none other
To wreak thy spleen on, parricide?

Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak; Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye: Alas! how easy my mistake!

I took you for your likeness, Chloe.

By POPE..

MUSE, 'tis enough; at length thy labor ends, And thou shalt live-for Buckingham commends.

Let crowds of critics now my verse assail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail;
This more than pays whole years of thankless
pain,

Time, pain, and fortune, are not lost in vain ;
Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.

On a certain Beauty.

MISTAKEN nature here has join'd A beauteous face and ugly mind; ' In vain the faultless features strike, When soul and body are unlike: Pity that snowy breast should hide Deceit, and avarice, and pride. So in rich jars, from China brought, With glowing colors gaily wrought, Ofttimes the subtle spider dwells, With secret venom bloated swells; Weaves all his fatal nets within, As unsuspected as unseen.

By WALLER.

WERE men so dull they could not see
That Lyce painted; should they flee,
Like simple birds, into a net
So grossly woven and ill-set ;

Her own teeth would undo the knot,
And let all go that she had got.
These teeth my Lyce must not show,
If she would bite: her lovers, though
Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes,
Are disabus'd when first she gapes:
The rotten bones discover'd there,
Show 'tis a painted sepulchre.

To Mr. POPE. DEPEND not upon verse for fame, Though none can equal thine: Our language never rests the same; "Twill rise, or 'twill decline.

Thy wreaths, in course of fleeting hours,
Too soon will be decay'd;

But story lasts, though modern flow'rs
Of poetry must fade.

A surer way then wouldst thou find
Thy glory to prolong,

Whilst there remains amongst mankind
The sense of right and wrong;
Thy fame with nature's self shall end,
Let future times but know
That Atterbury was thy friend,
And Bentley was thy foe.

By Lord HERVEY. POSSESS'D of one great hall for state, Without one room to sleep or eat; How well you build, let flattery tell, And all mankind how ill dwell. you 3L2

Written in a Window of the Tower, over the Name of R. Walpole, confined in the same Room, Ann. Dom. 1712. LANSDOWNE.

GOOD unexpected, evil unforeseen, Appear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene; Some rais'd aloft come tumbling down again, And fall so hard, they bound and rise again.

The Manchester Millers named Bone and Skin. BYROM.

BONE and Skin, two millers thin, Would starve us all, or near it : But be it known to Skin and Bone, That flesh and blood can't bear it.

By Sir G. LYTTELTON.

NONE without hope e'er lov'd the brightest fair, But love can hope where reason would despair.

TRUE wit is like the brilliant stone

Dug from the Indian mine; Which boasts two diff'rent pow'rs in one, To cut as well as shine. Genius, like that, if polish'd right,

With the same gifts abounds; Appears at once both keen and bright, And sparkles while it wounds.

The Difference between the Ancients and Moderns.

SOME for the ancients zealously declare; Others, our modern wits are fools, aver: A third affirms, that they are much the same, And differ only as to time and name: Yet sure one more distinction may be told; Those once were new, but these will ne'er be old.

To Mr. Pope, on his Epitaph on Mr. Gay. LORD ORRERY.

ENTOME'D with kings though Gay's cold ashes lie,

A nobler monument thy strains supply.
Thy matchless muse, still faithful to thy friend,
By courts unaw'd, his virtues dare commend.
Lamented Gay! forget thy treatment past,
Look down, and see thy merit crown'd at last.
A destiny more glorious who can hope?
In life belov'd, in death bemoan'd, by Pope.

On the Queen's Grotto at Richmond.

LEWIS the living genius fed,
And rais'd the scientific head;
Our Queen, more frugal of her meat,
Raises those heads which cannot eat.

dead.

I'm very glad to hear it too, cries Ned.

Twang goes the bow! my girls, have at your

hearts!