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Upon the Duke of MARLBOROUGH's House at
Atria longe patent; sed nec conantibus usquam,
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
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.
Kio The Fourth Epistle of the First Book of HORACE's
Say, St. John, who alone peruse
the mimic muse,
The Fourth Epistle] This satire on Lord Bolingbroke, and the praise bestowed on him in a letter to Mr. Richardson, where Mr.
shall blush their fathers were his foes ;"
being so contradictory, probably occasioned the former to be sup:
AD ALBIUM TIBULLUM.
Scribere, quod Cassi Parmensis opuscula vincat ?"
66 An tacitum silvas inter reptare salubres ?"
To you (th’all-envied gift of Heav'n)
A form complete in ev'ry part, is. And, to enjoy that gift, the art.
What could a tender mother's care
Amidst thy various ebbs of fear
Ver. 13. To you, &c.]
- Dî tibi formam,
Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno,
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
In spite of fears, of mercy spite,
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
the bed where Wilmot lay;
Begets no numbers grave, or gáy.
But in thy roof, Argyle, are bred
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Beneath a nobler roof—the sky.
Such flames as high in patriots burn,
Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;
When freedom is more dear than life.