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(All this was only in a dream); And, thrusting it beyond his joint, "Tis done, he cry'd: I've gain'd my point.What point, said she, you ugly beast? You neither give me joy nor rest:

"Tis done:-What's done, you drunken bear? You've thrust your finger God knows where.


"Est enim quiddam, idque intelligitur in omni virtute, quod
deceat: quod cogitatione magis à virtute potest quàm re
Cic. de Off. 1. i.

Beyond the fix'd and settled rules
Of vice and virtue in the schools,
Beyond the letter of the law

Which keeps our men and maids in awe,
The better sort should set before 'em
A grace, a manner, a decorum ;
Something, that gives their acts a light;
Makes them not only just, but bright;
And sets them in that open fame,
Which witty malice cannot blame.

For 'tis in life, as 'tis in painting:
Much may be right, yet much be wanting;
From lines drawn true, our eye may trace
A foot, a knee, a hand, a face;
May justly own the picture wrought
Exact to rule, exempt from fault;
Yet, if the colouring be not there,
The Titian stroke, the Guido air:
To nicest judgments show the piece,
At best 'twill only not displease:
It would not gain on Jersey's eye;
Bradford would frown, and set it by.
Thus in the picture of our mind
The action may be well design'd;
Guided by law, and bound by duty;
Yet want this je ne scai quoi of beauty:
And though its error may be such,
As Knags and Burgess cannot hit;
It yet may feel the nicer touch
Of Wycherley's or Congreve's wit.

What is this talk? replies a friend,
And where will this dry moral end?
The truth of what you here lay down
By some example should be shown.-
With all my heart-for once; read on.
An honest but a simple pair
(And twenty other I forbear)
May serve to make this thesis clear.

A doctor of great skill and fame,
Paulo Purganti was his name,
Had a good, comely, virtuous wife;
No woman led a better life:

She to intrigues was ev'n hard-hearted:
She chuckled when a bawd was carted;
And thought the nation ne'er would thrive,
Till all the whores were burnt alive.

On married men, that dar'd be bad, She thought no mercy should be had; They should be hang'd, or starv'd, or flay'd, Or serv'd like Romish priests in Swede.— In short, all lewdness she defied: And stiff was her parochial pride.

Yet, in an honest way, the dame
Was a great lover of that same;
And could from scripture take her cue,
That husbands should give wives their due.
Her prudence did so justly steer
Between the gay and the severe,
That if in some regards she chose
To curb poor Paulo in too close,
In others she relax'd again,
And govern'd with a looser rein.

Thus though she strictly did confine
The doctor from excess of wine:
With oysters, eggs, and vermicelli,
She let him almost burst his belly:
Thus drying coffee was denied;
But chocolate that loss supplied:
And for tobacco (who could bear it?)
Filthy concomitant of claret:
(Blest revolution!) one might see
Eringo roots, and Bohea tea.

She often set the doctor's band,

And strok'd his beard and squeez'd his hand:
Kindly complain'd, that after noon

He went to pore on books too soon:
She held it wholesomer by much
To rest a little on the couch:
About his waist in bed a-nights
She clung so close-for fear of sprites.
The doctor understood the call;
But had not always wherewithal.

The lion's skin too short, you know,
(As Plutarch's morals finely show)
Was lengthen'd by the fox's tail:
And art supplies, where strength may fail.
Unwilling then in arms to meet

The enemy he could not beat;
He strove to lengthen the campaign,
And save his forces by chicane.
Fabius, the Roman chief, who thus

By fair retreat grew Maximus,
Shows us, that all that warrior can do,
With force inferior, is cunctando.

One day then, as the foe drew near,
With love, and joy, and life, and dear;
Our Don, who knew this tittle-tattle
Did, sure as trumpet, call to battle,
Thought it extremely a propos,
To ward against the coming blow:
To ward: but how? Ay, there's the question;
Fierce the assault, unarm'd the bastion.

The doctor feign'd a strange surprise:
He felt her pulse; he view'd her eyes:
That beat too fast, these roll'd too quick;
She was, he said, or would be sick;
He judg'd it absolutely good,

That she should purge, and cleanse her blood. Spa waters for that end were got:

If they past easily or not,

What matters it? The lady's fever
Continued violent as ever.

For a distemper of this kind
(Blackmore and Hans are of my mind),
If once it youthful blood infects,
And chiefly of the female sex,
Is scarce remov'd by pill or potion;
Whate'er might be our doctor's notion.
One luckless night then, as in bed
The doctor and the dame were laid;
Again this cruel fever came,

High pulse, short breath, and blood in flame.
What measures shall poor Paulo keep
With madam in this piteous taking?
She, like Macbeth, has murder'd sleep,
And won't allow him rest, though waking.
Sad state of matters! when we dare
Nor ask for peace, nor offer war;
Nor Livy nor Comines have shown
What in this juncture may be done.
Grotius might own, that Paulo's case is
Harder than any which he places
Amongst his Belli and his Pacis.
alas! but strove in vain,

He strove,

By dint of logic to maintain

That all the sex was born to grieve,

Down to her ladyship from Eve.

He rang'd his tropes, and preach'd up patience,

Back'd his opinion with quotations,
Divines and moralists; and run ye on
Quite through from Seneca to Bunyan.
As much in vain he bid her try
To fold her arms, to close her eye;
Telling her, rest would do her good,
If any thing in nature could:

So held the Greeks quite down from Galen,
Masters and princes of the calling:
So all our modern friends maintain
(Though no great Greeks) in Warwick-lane.
Reduce, my Muse, the wandering song:
A tale should never be too long.

The more he talk'd, the more she burn'd,
And sigh'd, and tost, and groan'd, and turn'd:
At last, I wish, said she, my dear-
(And whisper'd something in his ear)
You wish! wish on, the doctor cries:
Lord! when will womankind be wise?
What, in your waters? Are you mad?
Why poison is not half so bad.

I'll do it but I give you warning:
You'll die before tomorrow morning.-
'Tis kind, my dear, what you advise;
The lady with a sigh replies!
But life, you know, at best is pain;
And death is what we should disdain.
So do it therefore, and adieu:
For I will die for love of you.-
Let wanton wives by death be scar'd:
But, to my comfort, I'm prepar'd.


As Nancy at her toilet sat,
Admiring this, and blaming that,
Tell me, she said; but tell me true;
The nymph who could your heart subdue,
What sort of charms does she possess?
Absolve me, fair-one; I'll confess
With pleasure, I reply'd. Her hair,
In ringlets rather dark than fair,
Does down her ivory bosom roll,
And, hiding half, adorns the whole.
In her high forehead's fair half round
Love sits in open triumph crown'd:
He in the dimple of her chin,

In private state, by friends is seen.
Her eyes are neither black nor gray;
Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray;
Their dubious lustre seems to show
Something that speaks nor yes, nor no.
Her lips no living bard, I weet,

May say, how red, how round, how sweet;
Old Homer only could indite

Their vagrant grace and soft delight:
They stand recorded in his book,
When Helen smil'd, and Hebe spoke-
The gipsy, turning to her glass,
Too plainly show'd she knew the face;
And which am I most like, she said,
Your Cloe, or your Nut-brown Maid?


To the tune of King John and the Abbot of Canterbury. 1715.

I sing not old Jason, who travell'd through Greece,
To kiss the fair maids, and possess the rich fleece;
Nor sing 1 Æneas, who, led by his mother,
Got rid of one wife, and went far for another.

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

Nor him who through Asia and Europe did roam, Ulysses by name, who ne'er cry'd to go home, But rather desir'd to see cities and men, Than return to his farms, and converse with old Pen.

Hang Homer and Virgil! their meaning to seek, A man must have pok'd into Latin and Greek; Those who love their own tongue, we have reason to hope,

Have read them translated by Dryden and Pope.

But I sing of exploits that have lately been done By two British heroes, call'd Matthew and John; And how they rid friendly from fine London town, Fair Essex to see, and a place they call Down.

Now ere they went out you may rightly suppose How much they discours'd both in prudence and prose; [certed, For, before this great journey was thoroughly conFull often they met, and as often they parted. E e

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POPE-A. D. 1688-1744.


Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song:
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong.
The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades,
The dreams of Pindus and th' Aonian maids,
Delight no more-0 thou my voice inspire
Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire!
Rapt into future times, the bard begun!
A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son!
From Jesse's root behold a branch arise,
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies:
Th' Ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move,
And on its top descends the mystic Dove.
Ye Heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour,
And in soft silence shed the kindly shower!
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid,
From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade.
All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail;
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale;
Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend,
And white-rob'd Innocence from Heaven descend.
Swift fly the years, and rise th' expected morn!
Oh, spring to light, auspicious babe, be born!
See, nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring,
With all the incense of the breathing spring:
See lofty Lebanon his head advance,
See nodding forests on the mountains dance:
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise,
And Carmel's flowery top perfume the skies!
Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers;
Prepare the way! a God, a God appears!
A God, a God! the vocal hills reply,
The rocks proclaim th' approaching Deity.
Lo, earth receives him from the bending skies;
Sink down, ye mountains; and ye vallies rise;
With heads declin'd, ye cedars homage pay;
Be smooth, ye rocks: ye rapid floods, give way!
The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold:
Hear him, ye deaf; and all ye blind, behold!
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray,
And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day:
'Tis he th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear,
And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear:
The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego,
And leap exulting like the bounding roe.
No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear;
From every face he wipes off every tear.
In adamantine chains shall death be bound,
And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care,
Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air;
Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs,
By day o'ersees them, and by night protects;

The tender lambs he raises in his arms,
Feeds from his hand and in his bosom warms;
Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage,
The promis'd father of the future age.
No more shall nation against nation rise,
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes,
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er,
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more:
But useless lances into scythes shall bend,
And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end.
Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son
Shall finish what his short-liv'd sire begun;
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield,
And the same hand that sow'd, shall reap the field.
The swain in barren deserts with surprise
Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise;
And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds to hear
New falls of water murmuring in his ear.
On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes,
The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods.
Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn,
The spiry fir and shapely box adorn:


To leafless shrubs the flowery palms succeed, And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead: The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. The smiling infant in his hand shall take The crested basilisk and speckled snake; Pleas'd, the green lustre of the scales survey, And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise! Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn; See future sons, and daughters yet unborn, In crowding ranks on every side arise, Demanding life, impatient for the skies! See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend; See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, And heap'd with products of Sabean springs. For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. See Heaven its sparkling portals wide display, And break upon thee in a flood of day! No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn; But lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays, One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine! The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,

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