On Timothy Mum, a Tapster.

Here Tim the tapster lies, who drew good beer,
But now, drawn to his end, he draws no more;
Yes, still he draws from every friend a tear,

Water he draws, who drew good beer before.

On seeing an engraved Portrait of the late Dr. Cheyne ill done.
Nature and Vandergutch in this agree,
Unfinished she has left him, so has he.

On the Death of Mary Countess of Pembroke.
Underneath this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death, ere thou hast killed another,
Fair, and learned, good as she,
Time shall throw his dart at thee.

To a bad Fiddler.

Old Orpheus played so well he moved old Nick,
Whilst thou mov'st nothing but thy fiddle-stick.

Written on a Glass with the Earl of Chesterfield's diamond pencil.
Accept a miracle instead of wit;

See two dull lines by Stanhope's pencil writ.

The Real Affliction.

Doris, a widow, past her prime,

Her spouse long dead, her wailing doubles;

Her real griefs increase by time,

And what abates, improves her troubles.
Those pangs her prudent hopes suppressed,
Impatient now she cannot smother:
How should the helpless woman rest?
One's gone-nor can she get another.

To an old Woman who used Paint.

Leave off thy paint, perfumes, and youthful dress,
And nature's failing honestly confess;

Double we see those faults which art would mend,
Plain downright ugliness would less offend.

To Flirtilla.

In church, the prayer-book and the fan displayed,
And solemn curtesies, show the wily maid;
At plays, the leering looks, and wanton airs,
And nods, and smiles, are fondly meant for snares.
Alas! vain charmer, you no lovers get;

There you seem hypocrite, and here coquet.

On a picture of Mrs. Arabella Hunt, drawn playing on a lute, after her death.

Were there on earth another voice like thine,
Another hand so blessed with skill divine,
The late afflicted world some hopes might have,
And harmony retrieve thee from the grave.

On a Bursar of a certain college in Oxford cutting down the Trees near the said college for his own use.

Indulgent nature to each creature shows

A secret instinct to discern its foes:
The goose, a silly bird, avoids the fox;

Lambs fly from wolves, and sailors steer from rocks;
The thief the gallows, as his fate foresees,

And bears the like antipathy to trees.

On the death of Mrs. B, who died soon after her marriage.

Hail, happy bride! for thou art truly bless'd,

Three months of rapture crowned with endless rest.
Merit like yours was heaven's peculiar care,
You loved, yet tasted happiness sincere.
Το you the sweets of love were only shown;
The sure succeeding bitter dregs unknown;
You had not yet the fatal change deplored,
The tender love for the imperious lord;
Nor felt the pains that jealous fondness brings,
Nor wept the coldness from possession sprung:
Above your sex distinguished in your fate,
You trusted-yet experienced no deceit.

Soft were your hours, and winged with pleasures flew,
No vain repentance gave a sigh to you;
And if superior bliss heaven can bestow,
With fellow angels you enjoy it now.

The Emperor Adrian's Death-bed Verses to his Soul imitated.

Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing,

Must we no longer live together?
And dost thou prune thy trembling wing

To take thy flight the Lord knows whither?

Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly,

Lie all neglected, all forgot;

And pensive, wavering, melancholy,

Thou dread'st and hopest thou know'st not what.

To Celia, with a Snuff-Box, having a Looking-Glass in the Lid.
Let others Venus, and the Graces place,
Or Cupid, god of love, these toys to grace;
Deign, charmer, but to cast those sparkling eyes
On this fair mirror, lo! with glad surprise,
A fairer form than Venus shall arise.
Smile but my fair, and view ten thousand loves,
Cheerful as light, and soft as cooing doves:
Beauty and love with thee for ever stay,
Soon as thou closest the lid both fly away.

To Oliver Cromwell.

A peaceful sway the great Augustus bore,
O'er what great Julius gained by arms before;
Julius was all with martial trophies crowned;
Augustus for his peaceful arts renowned:
Rome calls them great, and makes them deities;
That, for his valour; this, his policies:

You, mighty prince, than both are greater far,
Who rule in peace that world you gained in war;
You sure from heaven a finished hero fell,

Who thus alone two Pagan Gods excel.

Inscription for a Fountain, adorned with Queen Anne's and the late Duke of Marlborough's Images, and the chief Rivers of the World round the work.

Ye active streams! where'er your waters flow,

Let distant climes and farthest nations know,

What ye from Thames and Danube have been taught,
How Anne commanded and how Marlborough fought.

On Blood's stealing the Crown.

When daring Blood, his rent to have regained,
Upon the English diadem distrained;

He chose the cassock, surcingle, and gown,
The fittest mark for one who robs the crown:
But his Lay Pity underneath prevailed,
And, while he saved the keeper's life, he failed.
With the priest's vestment, had he but put on
The prelate's cruelty, the crown had gone.

A Declaration of Love.

You I love, nor think I joke,
More than ivy does the oak;
More than fishes do the flood;
More than savage beasts the wood;
More than merchants do their gain;
More than misers to complain;
More than widows do their weeds;
More than friars do their beads;
More than Cynthia to be praised;
More than courtiers to be raised;
More than lawyers do the bar;
More than 'prentice boys a fair;
More than topers t'other bottle;
More than women tittle-tattle;
More than jailors do a fee;

More than all things I love thee.

Written in the 'Nouveaux Intérêts des Princes de l'Europe.'
Blest be the princes who have fought

For pompous names, or wide dominion;
Since by their error we are taught,

That happiness is but opinion.

On Snuff.

Jove once resolved, the females to degrade,
To propagate their sex without their aid;

His brain conceived, and soon the pangs and throes
He felt, nor could th' unnatural birth disclose;
At last, when tried, no remedy would do,
The god took snuff, and out the goddess flew.

On a Fan, in which was painted the story of Cephalus and Procris, with this motto, Aura Veni.

Come, gentle air, th'Æolian shepherd said, "
While Procris panted in the sacred shade;
Come, gentle air, the fairer Delia cries,
While at her feet her swain expiring lies.
Lo! the glad gales do o'er her beauties stray,
Breathe in her lips, and in her bosom play;
In Delia's hand this toy is faithful found,
Nor could that fabled dart more surely wound;
Both gifts destructive to the givers prove,
Alike both lovers fall, by those they love:
Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives,

At random wounds, nor knows the wounds she gives :
She views the story with attentive eyes,
And pities Procris, while her lover dies.

The advantage of having two Physicians.
One prompt physician like a sculler plies,
And all his art and all his skill applies:
But two physicians, like a pair of oars,
Convey you soonest to the Stygian shores.

The following Lines were found among MR. POPE's Papers in his own Hand-writing.

Argyll, his praise when Southerne wrote,
First struck out this, and then that thought;
Said this was flattery, that a fault.

How shall your bard contrive?

My lord, consider what

you do,

He'll lose his pains and verses too;
For if these praises fit not you,

They'll fit no man alive.

On an old Miser.

Here lies father Sparges,
Who died to save charges.

On a Grave-Stone in Cirencester Church-Yard.

God takes the good, too good on earth to stay,
And leaves the bad, too bad to take away.