Ye poets ragged and forlorn,
Down from your garrets haste;
Ye rhymers dead as soon as born,
Not yet consign'd to paste;
I know a trick to make you thrive;
O, 'tis a quaint device :
Your still-born poems shall revive,
And scorn to wrap up spice.
Get all your verses printed fair,
Then let them well be dried;
And Curll must have a special care
To leave the margin wide.
Send these to paper-sparing * Pope;
And when he sets to write,
No letter with an envelope
Could give him more delight.
*The original copy of Pope's celebrated translation of Homer (preserved in the British Museum) is almost entirely written on the covers of letters, and sometimes between the lines of the letters themselves.
Of Sherlock *, thus, for pr The sexton reason'd we And justly half the merit Because he rang the bel
WRITTEN AT LOND
By poets we are well assur'd
That love, alas! can ne'er be
A complicated heap of ills,
Despising boluses and pills.
Ah! Chloe, this I find is tru
Since first I gave my heart t
Now, by your cruelty hard h
my guts, my colon w
*The Dean of St Paul's, father
Of Sherlock *, thus, for preaching fam'd,
The sexton reason'd well;
And justly half the merit claim'd,
Because he rang the bell.
FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS.
By poets we are well assur'd
That love, alas! can ne'er be cur'd:
A complicated heap of ills,
Despising boluses and pills.
Ah! Chloe, this I find is true,
Since first I gave my heart to you.
Now, by your cruelty hard bound,
I strain my guts, my colon wound.
* The Dean of St Paul's, father to the bishop.-H.
Let nobles toast, in bright Nymphs higher born tha I'll drink her health, again, In Berkeley's tar, or sars'p
At Goodman's Fields I've mu
The postures strange of Mo But what are they to the soft s The gliding air of Domitilla
Virgil has eterniz'd in song
The flying footsteps of Cam
Sure, as a prophet, he was wro
He might have dream'd of D
Great Theodose condemn'd a t
For thinking ill of his Placill
And deuce take London! if so
O' th' city wed not Domitill
Wheeler, Sir George, in travels
Gives us a medal of Plantilla
But O! the empress has not ey
Nor lips, nor breast like Do
As th' ogling beams of Domitilla.
Let nobles toast, in bright champaign,
Nymphs higher born than Domitilla;
I'll drink her health, again, again,
In Berkeley's tar, or sars'parilla.
At Goodman's Fields I've much admired
The postures strange of Monsieur Brilla;
But what are they to the soft step,
The gliding air of Domitilla?
Virgil has eterniz'd in song
The flying footsteps of Camilla;
Sure, as a prophet, he was wrong;
He might have dream'd of Domitilla.
Great Theodose condemn'd a town
For thinking ill of his Placilla:
And deuce take London! if some knight
O' th' city wed not Domitilla.
Wheeler, Sir George, in travels wise,
Gives us a medal of Plantilla ;
But O! the empress has not eyes,
Nor lips, nor breast like Domitilla.
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