On receiving from the Right Honourable THE LADY FRANCES SHIRLEY,
A STANDISH AND TWO PENS.
Yes, I beheld th' Athenian queen
Defcend in all her fober charmis; "And take (she said, and smil'd serene) "Take at this hand celestial arms.
Secure the radiant weapons wield; "This goiden lance fhall guard defert, "And if a vice dares keep the field, "This steel shall stab it to the heart."
Aw'd, on my bended knees I fell,
Peceiv'd the weapons of the sky; And dipp'd them in the fable well, The fount of fame or infamy.
"What well? what weapon? (Flavia cries) "A ftandish, steel and golden pen! "It came from Bertrand's, not the skies; "I gave it you to write again.
"But, friend, take heed whom you attack;
"You'll bring a house (1 mean of peers) "Red, blue, and green, nay white and black,
"Land all about your ears.
"You'd write as fmooth again on glass, "And run, on ivory, fo glib, "As not to stick at fool or afs, "Nor ftop at flattery or fib.
"Athenian queen! and fober charms! "I tell you, fool, there's nothing in't : "'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms; "In Dryden's Virgil fee the print. "Come, if you'll be a quiet foul,
"That dares tell neither truth nor lies, "I'll lift you in the harmless roll
SUCH were the notes thy once-lov'd poet fung,
Till death untimely ftopp'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh, just beheld, and loft. admir'd, and mourn'd!
With fofteft manners, gentleft arts adorn'd!
Bleft in each science, bleft in every train!
Dear to the mufe! to Harley dear-in vain!
For him, thou oft haft bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statefman in the friend;
For Swift and him, defpis'd the farce of fate,
The fober follies of the wife and great;
Dextrous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleas'd to 'fcape from flattery to wit.
Abfent or dead, ftill let a friend be dear,
(A figh the abfent claims, the dead a tear)
Recal those nights that clos'd thy toilfome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of intereft, fame, or tate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;
Or, deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.
And fure, if aught below the feats divine
Can touch immortals, 'tis a foul like thine:
A foul fupreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all pain, and paffion, and all pride,
The rage of power, the blaft of public breath,
The luft of lucre, and the dread of death.
In vain to deferts thy retreat is made;
The mufe attends thee to thy filent fhade:
'Tis her's, the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Re-judge his acts, and dignify difgrace.
When intereft calls off all her sneaking train,
And all th' oblig'd defert, and all the vain ;
She waits, or to the fcaffold, or the cell,
When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.
Ev'n now, the fhades thy evening-walk with bays
A SOUL as full of worth, as void of pride,
Which nothing feeks to fhow, or needs to hide;
Which nor to guilt, nor fear, its caution owes,
And boasts a warmth that from no paffion flows:
A face untaught to feign; a judging eye,
That darts fevere upon a rifing lie,
And strikes a blush through frontless flattery:
All this thou wert; and being this before,
Know, kings and fortune cannot make thee more.
Then fcorn to gain a friend by servile ways,
Nor with to lose a foe these virtues raise;
But candid, free, fincere, as you began,
Proceed-a minifter, but still a man.
Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
Afham'd of any friend, not ev'n of me:
The patriot's plain, but untrod path purfue;
If not, 'tis I must be afham'd of you.
TO MR. JER VAS,
With MR. DRYDEN's Tranflation of FRESNOY'S Art of Painting.
[This epiftle, and the two following, were written fome years before the reft, and originally printed in 1717.]
THIS verfe be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse
This, from no venal or ungrateful mufe.
Whether thy hand flrike out fome free defign,
Where life awakes, and dawns at every line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvafs call the mimic face:
Read these inftructive leaves, in which conspire
Fresnoy's close art, and Dryden's native fire:
And reading wifh, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name;
Like them to fhine through long fucceeding age,
So just thy fkill, fo regular my rage.
Smit with the love of fifter arts we came,
And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;
Like friendly colours found them both unite,
And each from each contract new frength and
light.
How oft in pleafing tasks we wear the day,
How oft our flowly-growing works impart,
While images reflect from art to art!.
How oft review; each finding like a friend
Something to blame, and fomething to com-
mend?
What flattering fcenes our wandering fancy
Rome's pompous glories rifing to our thought!
Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly,
Fir'd with ideas of fair Italy.
With thee on Raphael's monument I mourn,
Or wait infpiring dreams at Maro's urn:
With thee repofe, where Tully once was laid,
Or feek fome ruin's formidable fhade:
While fancy brings the vanifh'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome anew.
Here thy well-ftudied marbles fix our eye;
A fading fresco here demands a figh:
Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare,
Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's
air,
Carracci's ftrength, Correggio's fofter line,
Paulo's free ftroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finish'd with illuftrious toil appears This fmall, well-polifh'd gem, the work of years! Yet ftill how faint by precept is exprefs'd The living image in the painter's breast! Thence endless ftreams of fair ideas flow, Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow; Thence beauty, waking all her forms, fupplies An angel's sweetnefs, or Bridgewater's eyes.
Mufe! at that name thy facred forrows fhed, Those tears eternal that embalm the dead; Call round her tomb cach object of defire, Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire: Bid her be all that cheers or foftens life, The tender fifter, daughter, friend, and wife: Bid her be all that makes mankind adore; Then view this marble, and be vain no more! Yet fill her charms in breathing paint en
Her modeft cheek fhall warm a future age.
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Beauty, frail flower, that every feafon fears,
Thus Churchill's race fhall other hearts surprise,
And other beauties envy Worfley's eyes;
Each pleafing Blount fhall endless fmiles beflow,
And foft Belinda's blush for ever glow.
Oh, lafting as thofe colours may they fhine,
Free as thy ftroke, yet faultlefs as thy line;
New graces yearly like thy works display,
Soft without weakness, without glaring gay;
Led by fome rule, that guides, but not con-
And finish'd more through happiness than pains!
The kindred arts fhall in their praife confpire,
One dip the pencil, and one ftring the lyre.
Yet fhould the graces all thy figures place,
And breathe an air divine on every face;
Yet fhould the mufes bid my numbers roll
Strong as their charms, and gentle as their foul;
With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie,
And these be fung till Granville's Myra die :
Alas! how little from the grave we claim!
WITH THE WORKS OF VOITURE.
In these gay thoughts the loves and graces shine,
And all the writer lives in every line:
His eafy art may happy nature feem,
Trifles themselves are elegant in him.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,
Who without flattery pleas'd the fair and great;
Still with esteem, no lefs.convers'd than read;
With wit well-natur'd, and with books well-bred:
His heart, his mistress, and his friend did fhare;
His time, the mufe, the witty and the fair.
Thus wifely carelefs, innocently gay,
Cheerful he play'd the trifle, life, away;
Till fate fcarce felt his gentle breath fuppreft,
As fmiling infants sport themselves to reft,
Ev'n rival wits did Voiture's death deplore,
And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before;
The truest hearts for Voiture heav'd with fighs,
Voiture was wept by all the brightest eyes:
The fmiles and loves had died in Voiture's death,
But that for ever in his lines they breathe.
Let the ftrict life of graver mortals be
A long, exact, and ferious comedy;
In every scene some mortal let it teach,
And, if it can, at once both please and preach.
Let mine, an innocent gay farce appear,
And more diverting fill than regular,
Have humour, wit, a native eafe and grace,
Though not too ftrictly bound to time and place:
Critics in wit, or life, are hard to please;
Few write to those, and none can live to these.
Too much your fex are by their forms confin'd,
Severe to all, but most to womankind;
Cuttom, grown blind with age, must be your guide;
Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride;
By nature yielding, ftubborn but for fame;
Made flaves by honour, and made fools by fhame.
Marriage may all thofe petty tyrants chase,
But fets up one, a greater in their place:
Well might you with for change by thofe accurft,
But the last tyrant ever proves the worst.
Still in constraint your fuffering fex remains,
Or bound in formal, or in real chains:
Whole years neglected, for fome months ador'd,
The fawning fervant tures a haughty lord.
Ah, quit not the free innocence of life,
For the dull glory of a virtuous wife;
Nor let falfe, fhows, nor empty titles please:
Aim not at joy, but reft content with ease,
The gods, to curfe Pamela with her prayers, Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares,, The fhining robes, rich jewels, beds of state, And, to complete her blifs, a fool for mate. She glares in balls, front boxes, and the ring, A vain, unquiet, glittering, wretched thing! Pride, pomp, and ftate, but reach her outward part;
She fighs, and is no duchess at her heart.
But, madam, if the fates withstand, and you
Trust not too much your now refiftless charms,
Thofe, age or fickness, foon or late difarms:
Good-humour only teaches charms to last,
Still makes new conquefts, and maintains the paff;
Love, rais'd on beauty, will like that decay,
Our hearts may bear its slender chain a day;
As flowery bands in wantonnefs are worn,
A morning's pleasure, and at evening torn;
This binds in ties more eafy, yet more ftrong,
The willing heart, and only holds it long.
Thus Voiture's early care ftill fhone the fame,
And Monthaufier was only chang'd in name;
By this, ev'n now they live, ev'n now they charm,
Their wit ftill sparkling, and their flames still warm.
Now crown'd with myrtle, on th' Elyfian coaft, Amid thofe lovers, joys his gentle ghoft: Pleas'd, while with fmiles his happy lines you view, And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you. The brighteft eyes in France inspir'd his mufe; The brightest eyes in Britain now peruse; And dead, as living, 'tis our author's pride Still to charm those who charm the world befide.
On ber leaving the Town after the Coronation, 1715. As fome fond virgin, whom her mother's care Drags from the town to wholefome country air, Juft when the learns to roll a melting eye, And hear a fpark, yet think no danger nigh; From the dear man unwilling she must fever, Yet takes one kifs before fhe parts for ever: Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew, Saw others happy, and with fighs withdrew; Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent, She figh'd, not that they stay'd, but that she went.
She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks, Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks: She went from opera, park, assembly, play, To morning-walks, and prayers three hours a-day; To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, To mufe, and fpill her tolitary tea; Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the flow clock, and dine exact at noon; Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'fquire; Up to her godly garret after feven, There ftarve and pray, for that's the way to heaven. Some 'fquire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whose game is whift, whose treat a toast in fack: Who vifits with a gun, prefents you birds, Then gives a fmacking bufs, and cries-no words! Or with his hounds comes halloving from the stable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whofe laughs are hearty, though his jefts are
And loves you beft of all things-but his horse.
In fome fair evening, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural fhade;
In penfive thought recal the fancy'd scene,
See coronations rife on every green;
Before you pass th' imaginary fights
Of lords, and carls, and dukes, and garter'd knights,
While the fpread fan o'erfhades your clofing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vifion flies.
Thus vanish fceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!
So when your flave, at fome dear idle time,
(Not plagu'd with headachs, or the want of
rhyme),
Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to ftudy, thinks of you.
Juft when his fancy points your fprightly eyes,
Or fees the blufh of foft Parthenia rife,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rush upon my fight;
Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow,
Look four, and hum a tune, as you may now.
THE baffet-table spread, the tallier come; Why ftays Smilinda in the dreffing-room! Rife, penfive nymph; the tallier waits for you.
Ah, madam, fince my fharper is untrue, I joyless make my once-ador'd Alpheu. Ifaw him ftand behind Ombrelia's chair, And whisper with that soft, deluding air, And those feign'd fighs which cheat the liftening fair.
Is this the caufe of your romantic ftrains? A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains. As you by love, so I by fortune cross'd; One, one bad deal, three Septlevas have loft.
Is that the grief, which you compare with mine? With ease, the fmiles of fortune I resign :Would all my gold in one bad deal were gone, Were lovely Sharper mine, and mine alone.
A lover loft, is but a common care; And prudent nymphs against that change prepare; The knave of clubs thrice loft: Oh! who could guefs
This fatal ftroke, this unforeseen distress?
See Betty Lovet! very á propos, She all the cares of love and play does know : Dear Betty fhall th' important point decide; Betty, who oft the pain of each has try'd: Impartial, fhe fhall fay who fuffers moft, By cards, ill ufage, or by lovers loft.
Tell, tell your griefs; attentive will 1 stay, Though time is precious, and I want fome tea.
Behold this equipage, by Mathers wrought,
See, on the tooth-pick, Mars and Cupid ftrive;
And both the ftruggling figures feem alive
Upon the bottom shines the queen's bright face;
A myrtle foliage round the thimble-cafe;
Jove, Jove himself does on the fciffars fhine;
The metal and the workmanship divine!
SMILINDA.
This fnuff-box-once the pledge of Sharper's love,
When rival beauties for the present ftrove;
At Corticelli's he the raffle won;
Then firft his paffion was in public shown:
Hazardia blufh'd, and turn'd her head afide,
A rival's envy (all in vain) to hide.
This fnuff-box,-on the hinge fee brilliants shine!
This fnuff-box will I stake; the prize is mine.
Alas! far leffer loffes than I bear, Have made a foldier figh, a lover swear. And oh what makes the disappointment hard, 'I'was my own lord that drew the fatal card. In complaifance, I took the queen he gave; Though my own fecret wifh was for the knave. The knave was Sonica, which I had chose; And the next pull, my Septleva I lofe.
But ah! what aggravates the killing smart, The cruel thought, that stabs me to the heart; This curs'd Ombrelia, this undoing fair, By whofe vile arts this heavy grief I bear; She, at whose name I fhed thofe fpiteful tears, She owes to me the very charms she wears. An awkward thing, when first she came to town; Her shape unfashion'd, and her face unknown: She was my friend; I taught her first to spread Upon her fallow cheeks enlivening red: I introduc'd her to the park and plays; And by my intereft, Cozens made her stays. Ungrateful wretch, with mimic airs grown pert, She dares to steal my favourite lover's heart!
Wretch that I was! how often have I swore, When Winnal tally'd, I would punt no more! I know the bite, yet to my ruin run; And fee the folly which I cannot fhun.
How many maids have Sharper's vows deceiv'd! How many curs'd the moment they believ'd! Yet his known falfehoods could no warning prove; Ah! what is warning to a maid in love?
But of what marble must that breast be form'd,
To gaze on Baffet, and remain unwarm'd?
When kings, queens, knaves, are set in decent
rank;
Expes'd in glorious heaps the tempting bank,
Guineas, half-guineas, all the thining train;
The winner's pleasure, and the lofer's pain:
in bright confufion open rouleaus lie,
They strike the foul, and glitter in the eye.
Fir'd by the fight, all reason I disdain;
My paffions rife, and will not bear the rein.
Look upon Baffet, you who reafon boast;
And fee if reafon must not there be loft.
What more than marble must that heart compofe
Then, when he trembles! when his blushes rife :
When awful love feems melting in his eyes!
With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves:
He loves-I whisper to myself, he loves!
Such unfeign'd paffion in his looks appears,
I lose my memory of my former fears;
My panting heart confeffes all his charms,
I yield at once, and fink into his arms.
Think of that moment, you who prudence boaft;
For fuch a moment, prudence well were loft.
CARDELIA.
At the groom-porter's, batter'd bullies play,
Some dukes at Marybone bowl time away.
But who the bowl, or rattling dice compares
To Baffet's heavenly joys, and pleasing cares?
Soft Simplicetta doats upon a beau; Prudina likes a man, and laughs at show. Their several graces in my Sharper meet; Strong as the footman, as the master sweet.
Ceafe your contention, which has been too long; I grow impatient, and the tea's too strong. Attend, and yield to what I now decide; The equipage fhall grace Smilinda's fide: The fnuff-box to Cardelia I decree; Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.
UN JOUR, DIT UN AUTEUR, &c.
ONCE (fays an author, where I need not fay)
Two travellers found an oyster in their way;
Both fierce, both hungry; the difpute grew ftrong;
While scale in hand dame Juftice pafs'd along.
Before her each with clamour pleads the laws,
Explain'd the matter, and would win the cause.
Dame Juftice weighing long the doubtful right,
Takes, opens, fwallows it, before their fight.
The cause of ftrife remov'd fo rarely well,
There take (fays Juftice) take you each a fhell.
We thrive at Westminster on fools like you:
'Twas a fat oyster-Live in peace-Adieu.
OCCASIONED BY SOME VERSES OF HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.
MUSE, 'tis enough: at length the labour ends,
And thou fhalt live, for Buckingham commends.
Let crowds of critics now my verfe affail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail:
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain,
Time, health, and fortune, are not loft in vain.
Sheffield approves, confenting Phoebus bends,
And I and malice from this hour are friends.
To a Play for Mr. Dennis's Benefit, in 1733, when be was Old, Blind, and in great Diftrefs, a little be fore bis Death.
As when that hero, who in each campaign
Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal flain,
Lay fortune-ftruck, a fpectacle of woe!
Wept by each friend, forgiv'n by every foe:
Was there a generous, a reflecting mind,
But pitied Belifarius old and blind?
Was there a chief but melted at the fight?
A common foldier, but who clubb'd his mite?
Such, fuch emotions should in Britons rise,
When prefs'd by want and weakness Dennis lies ;
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their quibbles routed, and defy'd their puns,
A defperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce,
Against the Gothic fons of frozen verfe:
How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan
And shook the stage with thunders all his own!
Stood up to dafh each vain pretender's hope,
Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds dragoons and wooden fhoes in fcorn:
If there's a critic of diftinguish'd rage;
If there's a fenior, who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his just assistance lend,
And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's friend.
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