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Upon the Duke of MARLBOROUGH's House at

Woodstock.

Atria longe patent; sed nec conantibus usquam,
Nec somno, locus est: quam bene non habites !

Mart. Epig.

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 contriv'd for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber for debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state.

Thanks, Sir, cry'd 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

Kio The Fourth Epistle of the First Book of HORACE's

Epistles.

5

Say, St. John, who alone peruse
With candid

eye,

the mimic muse,
What schemes of politics, or laws,
In Gallic lands the patriot draws !
Is then a greater work in hand,
Than all the tones of Haines's band ?
“Or shoots he folly as it flies ?
Or catches manners as they rise ?”
Or urg'd by unquench'd native heat,
Does St. John Greenwich sports repeat ?
Where (emulous of Chartres' fame)
Ev'n Chartres' self is scarce a name.

10

NOTES.

The Fourth Epistle] This satire on Lord Bolingbroke, and the praise bestowed on him in a letter to Mr. Richardson, where Mr.

Pope says,
" Their sons

shall blush their fathers were his foes ;"

being so contradictory, probably occasioned the former to be sup:
pressed.
Ver. 1. Say, &c.]

AD ALBIUM TIBULLUM.
“ Albi, nostrorum sermonum candide judex,
Quid nunc te dicam facere in regione Pedana?

Scribere, quod Cassi Parmensis opuscula vincat ?"
Ver. 10. Does St. John Greenwich, &c.]

66 An tacitum silvas inter reptare salubres ?"

To you (th’all-envied gift of Heav'n)
Th’indulgent gods, unask'd, have giv'n

A form complete in ev'ry part, is. And, to enjoy that gift, the art.

15

What could a tender mother's care
Wish better, to her fav’rite heir,
Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,
A stock of health, and golden show'rs,
And graceful fluency of speech,
Precepts before unknown to teach?

20

25

Amidst thy various ebbs of fear
And gleaming hope, and black despair,
Yet let thy friend this truth impart,
A truth I tell with bleeding heart,
(In justice for your labours past)
That ev'ry day shall be your last;

NOTES.

Ver. 13. To you, &c.]

- Dî tibi formam,
Di tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi."
Ver. 17. What could, &c.]

Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno,
Quam sapere, et fari possit quæ sentiat, et cui
Gratia, fama, valetudo contingat abunde,

non deficiente crumena ?” Ver. 23. Amidst, &c.] “ Inter

spem, curamque, timores inter et iras." Ver. 28. That ev'ry day, &c.]

“ Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum. Me pinguem et nitidum bene curata cute vises, Cum ridere voles, Epicuri de grege porcum."

That ev'ry hour your life renew
Is to your injur'd country due.

30

In spite of fears, of mercy spite,
My genius still must rail, and write.
Haste to thy Twick’nham's safe retreat,
And mingle with the grumbling great ;
There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find 35
The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
There (objects of our mutual hate)
We'll ridicule both church and state.

A Fragment, attributed by some to Mr. Pope, and by

others to MR. CONGREVE. It has, however, been seen in the hand-writing of the former.

What are the falling rills, the pendant shades, The morning bow'rs, the evening colonnades, But soft recesses for th' uneasy mind To sigh unheard in, to the passing wind! So the struck deer, in some sequester'd part, Lies down to die (the arrow in his heart) There hid in shades, and wasting day by day, Inly he bleeds, and pants his soul away.

Verses left by MR. POPE, on his lying in the same

Bed which WILmot, the celebrated Earl of Rochester, slept in, at Adderbury, then belonging to the Duke of ARGYLE, July 9th, 1739.

With no poetic ardour fir'd
I
press

the bed where Wilmot lay;
That here he lov'd, or here expir'd,

Begets no numbers grave, or gáy.

But in thy roof, Argyle, are bred

Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed,

Beneath a nobler roof—the sky.

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.

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