1 Yes, I beheld the Athenian queen
          Descend in all her sober charms;
       'And take,' she said, and smiled serene,
         'Take at this hand celestial arms:

     2 'Secure the radiant weapons wield;
         This golden lance shall guard desert;
       And if a vice dares keep the field,
         This steel shall stab it to the heart.'

     3 Awed, on my bended knees I fell,
         Received the weapons of the sky;
       And dipp'd them in the sable well,
         The fount of fame or infamy.

     4 'What well? what weapon?' Flavia cries—
         'A standish, steel, and golden pen!
        It came from Bertrand's,64 not the skies;
          I gave it you to write again.

     5 'But, friend, take heed whom you attack;
         You'll bring a house (I mean of peers)
       Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black,
         L—— and all about your ears.

     6 'You'd write as smooth again on glass,
         And run, on ivory, so glib,
       As not to stick at fool or ass,65         Nor stop at flattery or fib.66
     7 'Athenian queen! and sober charms!
         I tell ye, fool, there's nothing in't:
       'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms;67         In Dryden's Virgil see the print.68
     8 'Come, if you'll be a quiet soul,
         That dares tell neither truth nor lies,69       I'll list you in the harmless roll
         Of those that sing of these poor eyes.'

     Once (says an author—where I need not say)
     Two travellers found an oyster in their way;
     Both fierce, both hungry; the dispute grew strong,
     While, scale in hand, Dame Justice pass'd along.
     Before her each with clamour pleads the laws,
     Explain'd the matter and would win the cause.
     Dame Justice, weighing long the doubtful right,
     Takes, opens, swallows it, before their sight.
     The cause of strife removed so rarely well,
     'There,—take' (says Justice) 'take ye each a shell.
     We thrive at Westminster on fools like you:
     'Twas a fat oyster—live in peace—adieu.'

     What is prudery?

     'Tis a bledam,
     Seen with wit and beauty seldom.
     'Tis a fear that starts at shadows.
     Tis, (no, 'tisn't) like Miss Meadows.
     'Tis a virgin hard of feature,
     Old, and void of all good-nature;
     Lean and fretful; would seem wise;
     Yet plays the fool before she dies.
     'Tis an ugly, envious shrew,
     That rails at dear Lepell and you.

     Muse, 'tis enough: at length thy labour 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, health, and fortune are not lost in vain,
     Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends,
     And I and Malice from this hour are friends.

     When simple Macer, now of high renown,
     First sought a poet's fortune in the town,
     'Twas all the ambition his high soul could feel,
     To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele.
     Some ends of verse his betters might afford,
     And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
     Set up with these, he ventured on the town,
     And with a borrow'd play, out-did poor Crowne.
     There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle,
     But has the wit to make the most of little:              10
     Like stunted, hide-bound trees that just have got
     Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot.
     Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends,
     Not of the wits, his foes, but fools, his friends.

     So some coarse country wench, almost decay'd,
     Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid;
     Awkward and supple, each devoir to pay,
     She flatters her good lady twice a-day;
     Thought wondrous honest, though of mean degree,
     And strangely liked for her simplicity:
     In a translated suit, then tries the town,
     With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own:
     But just endured the winter she began,
     And in four months a batter'd harridan.
     Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,
     To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.

     1 Fluttering, spread thy purple pinions,
     Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart,
     I a slave in thy dominions;
     Nature must give way to art.

     2 Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
     Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
     See my weary days consuming,
     All beneath yon flowery rocks.

     3 Thus the Cyprian goddess, weeping,
     Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth:
     Him the boar, in silence creeping,
     Gored with unrelenting tooth.

     4 Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
     Fair Discretion, string the lyre;
     Soothe my ever-waking slumbers:
     Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

     5 Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
     Arm'd in adamantine chains,
     Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
     Watering soft Elysian plains.

     6 Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
     Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
     Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow,
     Hear me pay my dying vows.

     7 Melancholy smooth Maeander,
     Swiftly purling in a round,
     On thy margin lovers wander,
     With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.

     8 Thus when Philomela, drooping,
     Softly seeks her silent mate,
     See the bird of Juno stooping;
     Melody resigns to fate.

     1 I know the thing that's most uncommon;
     (Envy be silent, and attend!)
     I know a reasonable woman,
     Handsome and witty, yet a friend.

     2 Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour,
     Not grave through pride, or gay through folly,
     An equal mixture of good humour,
     And sensible soft melancholy.

     3 'Has she no faults, then (Envy says), sir?'
     Yes, she has one, I must aver:
     When all the world conspires to praise her,
     The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

     Thou who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent wave
     Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave;
     Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil,
     And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill,
     Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow,
     And latent metals innocently glow:
     Approach! Great Nature studiously behold!
     And eye the mine without a wish for gold.
     Approach: but awful! lo! the Aegerian grot,70     Where, nobly-pensive, St John sate and thought;
     Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole,
     And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont's soul.
     Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor,
     Who dare to love their country, and be poor!

     VARIATIONS.

     After VER. 6, in the MS.—

     Yon see that island's wealth, where, only free,
     Earth to her entrails feels not tyranny.

     —i.e. Britain is the only place on the globe which feels not tyranny
     even to its very entrails. Alluding to the condemnation of criminals to
     the mines, one of the inflictions of civil justice in most countries—W.

     VER. 11, in MS. it was thus—

     To Wyndham's breast the patriot passions stole.

     Roxana, from the Court returning late,
     Sigh'd her soft sorrow at St James's gate:
     Such heavy thoughts lay brooding in her breast,
     Not her own chairmen with more weight oppress'd:
     They curse the cruel weight they're doom'd to bear;
     She in more gentle sounds express'd her care.

     'Was it for this, that I these roses wear?
     For this, new-set the jewels for my hair?
     Ah, Princess! with what zeal have I pursued!
     Almost forgot the duty of a prude.                       10
     This king I never could attend too soon;
     I miss'd my prayers, to get me dress'd by noon.
     For thee, ah! what for thee did I resign?
     My passions, pleasures, all that e'er was mine:
     I've sacrificed both modesty and ease;
     Left operas, and went to filthy plays:
     Double-entendres shock'd my tender ear;
     Yet even this, for thee, I chose to bear:
     In glowing youth, when nature bids be gay,
     And every joy of life before me lay;                     20
     By honour prompted, and by pride restrain'd,
     The pleasures of the young my soul disdain'd:
     Sermons I sought, and with a mien severe
     Censured my neighbours, and said daily prayer.
     Alas, how changed! with this same sermon-mien,
     The filthy What-d'ye-call-it71—I have seen.
     Ah, royal Princess! for whose sake I lost
     The reputation, which so dear had cost;
     I, who avoided every public place,
     When bloom and beauty bid me show my face,               30
     Now near thee, constant, I each night abide,
     With never-failing duty, by thy side;
     Myself and daughters standing in a row,
     To all the foreigners a goodly show.
     Oft had your drawing-room been sadly thin,
     And merchants' wives close by your side had been,
     Had I not amply fill'd the empty place,
     And saved your Highness from the dire disgrace:
     Yet Cockatilla's artifice prevails,
     When all my duty and my merit fails:                     40
     That Cockatilla, whose deluding airs
     Corrupts our virgins, and our youth ensnares;
     So sunk her character, and lost her fame,
     Scarce visited before your Highness came:
     Yet for the bedchamber 'tis she you choose,
     Whilst zeal, and lame, and virtue you refuse.
     Ah, worthy choice; not one of all your train
     Which censures blast not, or dishonours stain.
     I know the Court, with all its treacherous wiles,
     The false caresses, and undoing smiles.                  50
     Ah, Princess! learn'd in all the courtly arts,
     To cheat our hopes, and yet to gain our hearts.'

     1 In beauty or wit,
     No mortal as yet
     To question your empire has dared;
     But men of discerning
     Have thought that in learning
     To yield to a lady was hard.

     2 Impertinent schools,
     With musty dull rules,
     Have reading to females denied:
     So Papists refuse
     The Bible to use,
     Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.

     3 'Twas a woman at first
     (Indeed she was cursed)
     In knowledge that tasted delight,
     And sages agree
     The laws should decree
     To the first possessor the right.

     4 Then bravely, fair dame,
     Resume the old claim,
     Which to your whole sex does belong;
     And let men receive,
     From a second bright Eve,
     The knowledge of right and of wrong.

     5 But if the first Eve
     Hard doom did receive,
     When only one apple had she,
     What a punishment new
     Shall be found out for you,
     Who, tasting, have robb'd the whole tree!

     The playful smiles around the dimpled mouth,
     That happy air of majesty and truth,
     So would I draw: but, oh! 'tis vain to try,
     My narrow genius does the power deny;
     The equal lustre of the heavenly mind,
     Where every grace with every virtue's join'd:
     Learning not vain, and wisdom not severe,
     With greatness easy, and with wit sincere;
     With just description show the soul divine,
     And the whole princess in my work should shine.

     1 Generous, gay, and gallant nation,
     Bold in arms, and bright in arts;
     Land secure from all invasion,
     All but Cupid's gentle darts!
     From your charms, oh! who would run?
     Who would leave you for the sun?
     Happy soil, adieu, adieu!

     2 Let old charmers yield to new;
     In arms, in arts, be still more shining:
     All your joys be still increasing;
     All your tastes be still refining;
     All your jars for ever ceasing;
     But let old charmers yield to new:
     Happy soil, adieu, adieu!

     'See, sir, here's the grand approach,
     This way is for his Grace's coach:
     There lies the bridge, and here's the clock,
     Observe the lion and the cock,
     The spacious court, the colonnade,
     And mark how wide the hall is made!
     The chimneys are so well design'd,
     They never smoke in any wind.
     This gallery's contrived for walking,
     The windows to retire and talk in;
     The council chamber for debate,
     And all the rest are rooms of state.'

     'Thanks, sir,' cried I, ''tis very fine,
     But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine?
     I find by all you have been telling
     That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.'

     1 With no poetic ardour fired,
         I press the bed where Wilmot lay;
       That here he loved, or here expired,
         Begets no numbers, grave or gay.

     2 Beneath thy roof, Argyll, are bred
         Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
       Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed,
         Beneath a nobler roof—the sky.

     3 Such flames as high in patriots burn,
         Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;
       And such as wicked kings may mourn,
         When freedom is more dear than life.

     1 To one fair lady out of Court,
     And two fair ladies in,
     Who think the Turk72 and Pope73 a sport,
     And wit and love no sin;
     Come these soft lines, with nothing stiff in,
     To Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin.74     With a fa, la, la.

     2 What passes in the dark third row,
     And what behind the scene,
     Couches and crippled chairs I know,
     And garrets hung with green;
     I know the swing of sinful hack,
     Where many damsels cry alack.
     With a fa, la, la.

     3 Then why to Courts should I repair,
     Where's such ado with Townshend?
     To hear each mortal stamp and swear,
     And every speech with 'zounds!' end;
     To hear 'em rail at honest Sunderland,
     And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.75     With a fa, la, la.

     4 Alas! like Schutz I cannot pun,
     Like Grafton court the Germans;
     Tell Pickenbourg how slim she's grown,
     Like Meadows76 run to sermons;
     To Court ambitious men may roam,
     But I and Marlbro' stay at home.
     With a fa, la, la.

     5 In truth, by what I can discern
     Of courtiers, 'twixt you three,
     Some wit you have, and more may learn
     From Court, than Gay or me;
     Perhaps, in time, you'll leave high diet,
     To sup with us on milk and quiet.
     With a fa, la, la.

     6 At Leicester Fields, a house full high,
     With door all painted green,
     Where ribbons wave upon the tie,
     (A milliner I mean;)
     There may you meet us, three to three,
     For Gay can well make two of me.
     With a fa, la, la.

     7 But should you catch the prudish itch
     And each become a coward,
     Bring sometimes with you Lady Rich,
     And sometimes Mistress Howard;
     For virgins, to keep chaste, must go
     Abroad with such as are not so.
     With a fa, la, la.

     8 And thus, fair maids, my ballad ends;
     God send the king safe landing;77     And make all honest ladies friends
     To armies that are standing;
     Preserve the limits of those nations,
     And take off ladies' limitations.
     With a fa, la, la.

     Of gentle Philips78 will I ever sing,
     With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring;
     My numbers, too, for ever will I vary,
     With gentle Budgell,79 and with gentle Carey.80     Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill,
     With gentle Carey, and with gentle Budgell,
     Oh! may all gentle bards together place ye,
     Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy.
     May satire ne'er befool ye, or beknave ye,
     And from all wits that have a knack, God save ye!

     I am His Highness' dog at Kew;
     Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

     Ozell, at Sanger's call, invoked his Muse,
     For who to sing for Sanger could refuse?
     His numbers such as Sanger's self might use.
     Reviving Perrault, murdering Boileau, he
     Slander'd the ancients first, then Wycherley;
     Which yet not much that old bard's anger raised,
     Since those were slander'd most whom Ozell praised.
     Nor had the gentle satire caused complaining,
     Had not sage Rowe pronounced it entertaining;
     How great must be the judgment of that writer,
     Who the Plain Dealer damns, and prints the Biter!

     With scornful mien, and various toss of air,
     Fantastic, vain, and insolently fair,
     Grandeur intoxicates her giddy brain,
     She looks ambition, and she moves disdain.
     Far other carriage graced her virgin life,
     But charming Gumley's lost in Pulteney's wife.
     Not greater arrogance in him we find,
     And this conjunction swells at least her mind:
     Oh could the sire, renown'd in glass, produce
     One faithful mirror for his daughter's use!
     Wherein she might her haughty errors trace,
     And by reflection learn to mend her face:
     The wonted sweetness to her form restore,
     Be what she was, and charm mankind once more!

     1 Dear, damn'd, distracting town, farewell!
     Thy fools no more I'll tease:
     This year in peace, ye critics, dwell,
     Ye harlots, sleep at ease!

     2 Soft B——s and rough C——s, adieu!
     Earl Warwick, make your moan,
     The lively H——k and you
     May knock up whores alone.

     3 To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
     Till the third watchman's toll;
     Let Jervas gratis paint, and Frowde
     Save threepence and his soul.

     4 Farewell, Arbuthnot's raillery
     On every learnèd sot;
     And Garth, the best good Christian he,
     Although he knows it not.

     5 Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go;
     Farewell, unhappy Tonson!
     Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe,
     Lean Philips and fat Johnson.

     6 Why should I stay? Both parties rage;
     My vixen mistress squalls;
     The wits in envious feuds engage;
     And Homer (damn him!) calls.

     7 The love of arts lies cold and dead
     In Halifax's urn;
     And not one Muse of all he fed
     Has yet the grace to mourn.

     8 My friends, by turns, my friends confound,
     Betray, and are betray'd:
     Poor Y——r's sold for fifty pounds,
     And B——ll is a jade.

     9 Why make I friendships with the great,
     When I no favour seek.
     Or follow girls seven hours in eight?—
     I need but once a week.

     10 Still idle, with a busy air,
     Deep whimsies to contrive;
     The gayest valetudinaire,
     Most thinking rake alive.

     11 Solicitous for others' ends,
     Though fond of dear repose;
     Careless or drowsy with my friends.
     And frolic with my foes.

     12 Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell,
     For sober studious days!
     And Burlington's delicious meal,
     For salads, tarts, and pease!

     13 Adieu to all but Gay alone,
     Whose soul, sincere and free,
     Loves all mankind, but flatters none,
     And so may starve with me.

     1 Ye Lords and Commons, men of wit
     And pleasure about town,
     Read this, ere you translate one bit
     Of books of high renown.

     2 Beware of Latin authors all!
     Nor think your verses sterling,
     Though with a golden pen you scrawl,
     And scribble in a berlin:

     3 For not the desk with silver nails,
     Nor bureau of expense,
     Nor standish well japann'd, avails
     To writing of good sense.

     4 Hear how a ghost in dead of night,
     With saucer eyes of fire,
     In woeful wise did sore affright
     A wit and courtly squire.

     5 Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth!
     Like puppy tame that uses
     To fetch and carry, in his mouth,
     The works of all the Muses.

     6 Ah! why did he write poetry,
     That hereto was so civil;
     And sell his soul for vanity
     To rhyming and the devil?

     7 A desk he had of curious work,
     With glittering studs about;
     Within the same did Sandys lurk,
     Though Ovid lay without.

     8 Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought,
     Forth popp'd the sprite so thin,
     And from the keyhole bolted out,
     All upright as a pin.

     9 With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,
     And ruff composed most duly,
     This squire he dropp'd his pen full soon,
     While as the light burnt bluely.

     10 'Ho! Master Sam,' quoth Sandys' sprite,
     'Write on, nor let me scare ye!
     Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right,
     To Budgell seek, or Carey.

     11 'I hear the beat of Jacob's83 drums,
     Poor Ovid finds no quarter!
     See first the merry P——84 comes
     In haste without his garter.

     12 'Then lords and lordlings, squires and knights,
     Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers:
     Garth at St James's, and at White's
     Beats up for volunteers.

     13 'What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,
     Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
     Tom Burnet, or Tom D'Urfey may,
     John Dunton, Steele, or any one.

     14 'If Justice Philips' costive head
     Some frigid rhymes disburses:
     They shall like Persian tales be read,
     And glad both babes and nurses.

     15 'Let Warwick's Muse with Ashurst join,
     And Ozell's with Lord Hervey's,
     Tickell and Addison combine,
     And Pope translate with Jervas.

     16 'L—— himself, that lively lord,
     Who bows to every lady,
     Shall join with F—— in one accord,
     And be like Tate and Brady.

     17 'Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen;
     I pray, where can the hurt lie?
     Since you have brains as well as men,
     As witness Lady Wortley.

     18 'Now, Tonson, list thy forces all,
     Review them, and tell noses:
     For to poor Ovid shall befall
     A strange metamorphosis;

     19 'A metamorphosis more strange
     Than all his books can vapour'—
     'To what (quoth squire) shall Ovid change?'
     Quoth Sandys, 'To waste paper.'

     Close to the best known author Umbra sits,
     The constant index to old Button's wits,
     'Who's here?' cries Umbra: 'Only Johnson.'86—'Oh!
     Your slave,' and exit; but returns with Rowe:
     'Dear Rowe, let's sit and talk of tragedies;'
     Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies.
     Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel,
     And in a moment fastens upon Steele;
     But cries as soon, 'Dear Dick, I must be gone,
     For, if I know his tread, here's Addison.'
     Says Addison to Steele, ''Tis time to go:'
     Pope to the closet steps aside with Rowe.
     Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd pickle,
     E'en sits him down, and writes to honest Tickell.

     Fool! 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam;
     Know, sense, like charity, 'begins at home.'

     Sylvia my heart in wondrous wise alarm'd
     Awed without sense, and without beauty charm'd:
     But some odd graces and some flights she had,
     Was just not ugly, and was just not mad:
     Her tongue still ran on credit from her eyes,
     More pert than witty, more a wit than wise:
     Good-nature, she declared it, was her scorn,
     Though 'twas by that alone she could be borne:
     Affronting all, yet fond of a good name;
     A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame:
     Now coy, and studious in no point to fall,
     Now all agog for D——y at a ball:
     Now deep in Taylor, and the Book of Martyrs,
     Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres.

     Men, some to business, some to pleasure take;
     But every woman's in her soul a rake.
     Frail, feverish sex; their fit now chills, now burns:
     Atheism and superstition rule by turns;
     And a mere heathen in the carnal part,
     Is still a sad good Christian at her heart.

     In vain you boast poetic names of yore,
     And cite those Sapphos we admire no more:
     Fate doom'd the fall of every female wit;
     But doom'd it then, when first Ardelia writ.
     Of all examples by the world confess'd,
     I knew Ardelia could not quote the best;
     Who, like her mistress on Britannia's throne,
     Fights and subdues in quarrels not her own.
     To write their praise you but in vain essay;
     E'en while you write, you take that praise away:
     Light to the stars the sun does thus restore,
     But shines himself till they are seen no more.

     A Bishop, by his neighbours hated,
     Has cause to wish himself translated:
     But why should Hough desire translation,
     Loved and esteem'd by all the nation?
     Yet, if it be the old man's case,
     I'll lay my life I know the place:
     'Tis where God sent some that adore Him,
     And whither Enoch went before him.

     Strange! all this difference should be
     'Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!

     So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song,
     As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along:
     But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride,
     That the beasts must have starved, and the poet have died.

     Now Europe balanced, neither side prevails;
     For nothing's left in either of the scales.

     Here lies Lord Coningsby—be civil!
     The rest God knows—perhaps the Devil.

     You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come;
     Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.

     Sir, I admit your general rule,
     That every poet is a fool:
     But you yourself may serve to show it,
     That every fool is not a poet.

     Well, then, poor G—— lies under ground!
       So there's an end of honest Jack.
     So little justice here he found,
       'Tis ten to one he'll ne'er come back.

     1 Whence deathless 'Kit-cat' took its name,
         Few critics can unriddle:
       Some say from 'pastrycook' it came,
         And some, from 'cat' and 'fiddle.'

     2 From no trim beaux its name it boasts,
         Gray statesmen, or green wits;
       But from this pell-mell pack of toasts
         Of old 'cats' and young 'kits.'

     What's fame with men, by custom of the nation,
     Is call'd, in women, only reputation:
     About them both why keep we such a pother?
     Part you with one, and I'll renounce the other.

     1 Pallas grew vapourish once, and odd;
         She would not do the least right thing,
       Either for goddess or for god,
         Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing.

     2 Jove frown'd, and 'Use (he cried) those eyes
         So skilful, and those hands so taper;
       Do something exquisite and wise—'
         She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut paper.

     3 This vexing him who gave her birth,
         Thought by all heaven a burning shame;
       What does she next, but bids, on earth,
         Her Burlington do just the same.

     4 Pallas, you give yourself strange airs;
         But sure you'll find it hard to spoil
       The sense and taste of one that bears
         The name of Saville and of Boyle.

     5 Alas! one bad example shown,
         How quickly all the sex pursue!
       See, madam, see the arts o'erthrown
         Between John Overton and you!