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ON MRS. PULTENEY.
WITH scornful mien, and various toss of air,
A FAREWELL TO LONDON
IN THE YEAR 1714.
DEAR, damn'd, distracting town, farewell!
Thy fools no more I'll tease :
peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!
Soft B--s and rough C---, adieu !
Earl Warwick make your moan, The lively H ----k and you
May knock up whores alone.
To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman's toll ;
Save three-pence and his soul.
Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery
On every learned sot;
Altho’ he knows it not.
Lintot, farewell ! thy bard must go;
Farewell, unhappy Tonson ! Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe,
Lean Philips, and fat Johnson.
Why should I stay? Both parties rage ;
My vixen mistress squalls ;
The love of arts lies cold and dead
In Hallifax's urn;
Has yet the grace to mourn.
My friends, by turns, my friends confound,
Betray, and are betray'd : Poor Y -- rs sold for fifty pounds,
And B----ll is a jade.
Why make I friendships with the great,
When I no favour seek?
I us'd but once a week.
Still idle, with a busy air,
Deep whimsies to contrive ; The gayest valetudinaire,
Most thinking rake alive.
Solicitous for other ends,
Tho'fond of dear repose; Careless or drowsy with my friends,
And frolic with my foes.
Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell
For sober, studious days ! And Burlington's delicious meal,
For sallads, tarts, and pease
Adieu to all but Gay alone,
Whose soul, sincere and free, Loves all mankind, but flatters none,
And so may starve with me.
These lines were added by Mr. Pope after the pre
sent. Conclusion of his Address to Miss MARTHA BLOUNT, on her leaving Town, &c. “As some fond Virgin,” &c.
In this strange town a different course we take, Refine ourselves to spirit, for your sake. For want of you, we spend our random wit on The first we find with Needham, Brooks, or Briton. Hackney'd in sin, we beat about the town, And like sure spaniels, at first scent lie down : Were Virtue's self in silks—faith keep away! Or virtue’s virtue scarce would last a day.
Thus, Madam, most men talk, and some men do; The rest is told you in a line or two. Some strangely wonder you're not fond to marry-A double jest still pleases sweet Sir Harry, Small-pox is rife, and Gay in dreadful fearThe good priests whisper-Where's the chevalier? Much in your absence B—'s heart endures, And if poor Pope is—–, the fault is yours.
The following Lines were sung by DURASTANTI, when she took her leave of the English Stage. The Words were in Haste put together by MR. POPE, at the Request of the Earl of PETERBOROW.
GENEROUS, gay, and gallant nation,
All but Cupid's gentle darts !
Happy soil, adieu, adieu !
In arms, in arts, be still more shining;
All your tastes be still refining;
your jars for ever ceasing :