Not to his patient touch, or happy flame, Nature! informer of the poets art, Whose form alone can raise or melt the heart, DIALOGUE. Pope. Since my old friend is grown so great As to be minister of state, I'm told (but 'tis not true I hope) That Craggs will be asham'd of Pope. Craggs. Alas! if I am such a creature, ON AN OLD GATE, Erected in Chiswick Gardens. GATE, how cam'st thou here ? Gate.-I was brought from Chelsea last year Batter'd with wind and weather. Sir Han Sloane Let me alone; Burlington brought me hither. 1724. A FAREWELL TO LONDON, Written in the Year 1715. DEAR damn'd distracting town farewell! Thy fools no more I'll teaze; This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease! Soft B and rough Cadieu! Earl Warwick make your moan, The lively H-k and you May knock up w-h-es alone. To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery And Garth, the best good christian he, Lintot farewel! thy Bard must go, Farewel, unhappy Tonson! Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe, Lean Phillips and fat Johnson. Why should I stay, both parties rage; The love of arts lies cold and dead And not one Muse of all he fed My friends, by turns, my friends confound, Betray and are betray'd; Why make I friendships with the great, When I no favor seek? Or follow girls seven hours in eight ?— I need but once a week. Still idle with a busy air, The gayest valetudinaire, Most thinking rake aliye. Solicitous for other's ends, Though fond of dear repose; Careless or drowsy with my friends, And frolic with my foes. Luxurious Lobster-nights, farewel, Adieu to all but Gay alone, W A FRAGMENT. HAT are the falling rills, the pendant shades, To sigh unheard into the passing wind! VERSES Left by Mr. Pope, on his lying in the same bed which Wilmot, the celebrated Earl of Rochester slept in, at Adderbury, then belonging to the Duke of Argyle, July 9th, 1739. W ITH no poetic ardor fir'd I press the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he lov'd, or here expir'd, Begets no numbers grave or gay. But in thy roof Argyle, are bred Such flames as high in patriots burn, FEW VERSES TO MR. C. ST. JAMES'S-PLACE, London, Oct. 22. Ew words are best, I wish you well; |