On Mr. Fenton.

POPE.

THIS
HIS modeft stone, what few vain marbles can.
May truly fay, "Here lies an honest man :'
A poet, blefs'd beyond the poet's fate, [great.
Whom Heaven kept facred from the proud and
Foe to loud praife, and friend to learned eafe,
Content with fcience in the vale of peace,
Calmly he look'd on either life, and here
Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;
From nature's temp'rate feaft rofe fatisfied,
Thank'd Heav'n that he had liv'd, and that he died.

OF

On Mr. Gay.

POPE.

manners gentle, of affections mild; In wit a man, fimplicity a child; With native humour temp'ring virtuous rage, Form'd to delight at once and lash the age: Above temptation in a low cftate, And uncorrupted ev'n among the great: A fafe companion, and au caly friend, Unblam'd thro' life, lamented in his end. Thefe are thy honours! not that here thy buft Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy duft; But that the worthy and the good shall fay, Striking their penfive bofoms-Here lies Gay.

On Tom D'Urfey. HERE lies the Lyric, who, with tale and fong, Did life to threefcore years and ten prolong: His tale was pleafant, and his fong was sweet; His heart was cheerful-but his thirft was great. Grieve, reader! grieve, that he, too foon grown old, His fong has ended, and his tale has told.

Incription on an Urn at Lord Cork's to the Memory of the Dog Helor. STRANGER,behold the mighty Hector's tomb! See! to what end both dogs and heroes come. Thefe are the honours by his mafter paid To Hector's manes and lamented thade: Nor words nor honours can enough commend The fecial deg-nay more, the faithful friend From nature all his principles he drew; By nature faithful, vigilant, and true; His looks and voice his inward thoughts exprefs'd; He growl'd in anger, and in love carefs'd. No human falfehood lurk'd beneath his heart; Brave without boafting, gen'rous without art. When Hector's virtues man, proud man, difplays, Truth fhall adorn his tomb with Hector's praife.

On an old Woman who fold Pots at Chefter.
BENEATH this ftone lies Cathrine Gray,
Chang'd to a lifelefs lump of clay:
By earth and clay the got her pelf,
Yet now the 's turn'd to earth herself.
Ye weeping friends, let me advife,
Abate your grief, and dry your eyes;
For what avails a flood of tears?
Who knows but in a run of years,
In fome tall pitcher, or broad pan,
She in her fhop may be again?

To the Pye-houfe Memory of Nell Batchelour, the
Oxford Pye-woman.
HERE, into the duft,

Of

The mouldering cruft
Elenor Batchelour 's fhoven;

Well vers'd in the arts

Of pics, cuftards, and tarts,
And the lucrative skill of the oven.

When the 'd liv'd long enough,
She made her last puf-
A puff by her husband much prais'd:
Now here the doth lie,

And makes a dirt-pie,

In hopes that her cruft thall be rais'd.

On Sir John Fonbrugh, the Poet and Architect. By D. EVANS. LIE heavy on him, earth! for he Laid many a heavy load on thee.

mind,

Thy country's friend, but more of human-kind!
O born to arms! O worth in youth approv'd!
O foft humanity, in age belov'd!
For thee the hardy vet'ran drops a tear,
And the gay courtier feels the figh fincere.
Withers, adieu! yet not with thee remove
Thy martial fpirit, or thy focial love!
Amidft corruption, luxury, and rage,
Still leave fome ancient virtues to our age:
Nor let us fay, thofe English glories gone,
The laft true Briton lies beneath this ftone.

On Mr Craggs.

POPE.

On a young Lady.

fincere,

In action faithful, and in honour clear !
Who broke no promife, ferv'd no private end;
Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend!
Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,
Prais'd, wept, and honour'd-by the muse he lov'd.

On Sir Ifaac Newton.

Was fnatch'd by carly, not untimely, death. Hence did the go juft as he did begin Sorrow to know, before the knew to fin. Death, that does fin and forrow thus prevent, Is the next bleffing to a life well fpent.

the dark and filent tomb Soon Ihafted, from the womb;

vine,

Ere I meafur'd out my fpan.

I no fimiling pleasures knew;
I no gay delights could view:
Joylefs fojourner was I,
Only born to weep and d'e.

Happy infant, early bleft!
Reft, in peaceful flumber reft;
Early refcued from the cares
Which increafe with growing years.

No delights are worth thy ftay, Smiling as they feem, and gay;

Hardly tafted ere they pall.

All our gaiety is vain, All our laughter is but pain: Lafting only, and divine, Is an innocence like thine.

Another.

Another.

BENEATH a fleeping infant lies;
To earth her body's lent:

More glorious the 'll hereafter rife,
Tho' not more innocent.

When the archangel's trump fhall blow,
And fouls to bodies join,

Millions will with their lives below
Had been as fhort as thine.

On Two Twin-Sifters.

FAIR marble, tell to future days,
That here two virgin-fifters lie,
Whofe life employ'd each tongue in praise,
Whofe death gave tears to ev'ry eye.
In ftature, beauty, years, and fame,
Together as they grew, they fhone;

So much alike, fo much the fame,

That death miftook them both for one.

Epitaph on Mifs Drummond, in the Church of Brodforth, Yorkshire. MASON.

HERE fleps what once was beauty, once was

grace;

Grace, that with tendernefs and fenfe combin'd
To form that harmony of foul and face,
Where beauty fhines the mirror of the mind.
Such was the maid, that in the morn of youth,
In virgin innocence, in nature's pride,

Bleft with each art that owes its charms to truth,
Sunk in her father's fond embrace, and died.
He weeps: O venerate the holy tear!
Faith lends her aid to eafe fiction's load;
The parent mourns his child upon the bier,
The chriftian yields an angel to his God.

died at Bath, March 22, 1764.

REMOV'D from all the pains and cares of

life,

Here refts the pleasing friend and faithful wife :
Ennobled by the virtues of her mind :
Conftant to goodness, and in death refign'd:
Who plac'd true practice in a wife retreat,
Privately pious; and unknown, tho' great;
Sure, in the filent fabbath of the grave,
To taste that tranquil peace the always gave.
O early-loft, in virtue's faireft prime!
Thy pieties fupplied life's want of time.
No death is fudden to a foul prepar'd-
When God's own hour brings always God's
reward.

Thy death (and fuch, O reader, with thy own!)

Was free from terrors, and without a groan:
Thy fpirit to himself th' Almighty drew,
Mild as his fun exhales th' afcending dew.

Epitaph on Mrs. Mafon, in the Cathedral at Bristol. MASON. TAKE, holy earth! all that my foul holds dear: Take that best gift, which Heaven fo lately

gave:

In

And foft humanity were there.
agony, in death refign'd,
She felt the wound the left behind.
Her infant image, here below,
Sits fmiling on a father's woe:
Whom what awaits, while yet he ftrays
Along the lonely vale of days?
A pang to fecret forrow dear;
A figh, an unavailing tear,

Till time fhall ev'ry grief remove,
With life, with inem'ry, and with love.

On General Wolfe: in the Church of Wefteram, in
Kent-where he was born, 1727.

WHILE George in forrow bows his laurell'd

head,

And bids the artift grace the foldier dead-
We raife no fculptur'd trophy to thy name,
Brave youth! the fairest in the lifts of fame.

Proud of thy birth, we boaft th' aufpicious

year;

Struck with thy fall, we fhed the gen'ral tear;
With humble grief infcribe one artless stone-
And from thy matchlefs honour date our own.

The Prayer of a wife Heathen.
REAT Jove, this one petition grant;

GRI
(Thou knoweft beft what mortals want:)
Afk'd or unafk'd, what 's good fupply;
What's evil-to our pray'rs deny!

To the Right Hon. Lady Ch, 1763.
WHEN lovely Portia glitters at the play.

Or, in her birth-night robes, outfhines
the day;

From crowds diftinguish'd by her grace and air,
Portia the faireft fees, where all are fair:
A kindling paffion ev'ry, breaft alarms,
Each tongue proclaims the triumph of her charms.
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But

But when, retir'd amidst their rural bow'rs, She cheers th' illuftrious patriot's calmer hours; Or, finiling, fits her infant tribe among, And guides to virtue's paths the lift'ning throng: Behold, amidst thefe pleafing cares of life, The tender mother, and th' engaging wife! More just applaufe thefe humbler virtues fhare, And Portia fhines-as good as the is fair.

An Incident in High Life.

THE Bucks had din'd, and deep in council fat Their wine was brilliant-but their wit grew flat:

Up ftarts his lordship, to the window flies,
And lo!" A race! a race!" in rapture cries:
Where?" quoth Sir John: "Why, fee! two
"drops of rain

"Start from the fummit of the crystal pane:
"A thousand pounds! which drop with nimblet
""force

"Performs its current down the flippery courfe!" The betts were fix'd; the dire fufpenfe they wait

For victory, pendant on the nod of fate.
Now down the lafh, unconfcious of the prize,
The bubbles roll-like pearls from Chloe's

Let Pope defign, and Burlington approve: Superfluous care! When diftant times fhall view This tomb grown old-his works fhall still be new.

On Mr. Najh's Picture at full Lengib, between the Bulls of Sir Ifaac Newton and Mr. Pope, at Bath. CHESTERFIELD.

THE

IIE old Egyptians hid their wit
In hieroglyphic drefs,
To give men pains in fearch of it,

And please themfelves with goofs. Moderns, to hit the felf-fame path,

And excrcife their parts,
Place figures in a room at Bath:
Forgive them, God of Arts!
Newton, if I can judge aright,

All Wifdem does exprefs;
His knowledge gives mankind delight,
Adds to their happinefs.
Pope is the emblem of true Wit,

The funfhine of the mind; Read o'er his works in fearch of it, You'll endlefs pleasure find. Nash reprefents man in the mafs, Made up of wrong and right; Sometimes a king, fometimes an afs; Now blunt, and now polite. The picture plac'd the bufts between, Adds to the thought much frength; Wifdom and Wit are little feen, But Folly 's at full length.

A JOLLY, brave toper, who could not forbear, Though his life was in danger, old port and ftale beer,

Gave the doctors the hearing-but still would drink on,

Till the dropfy had fwell'd him as big as a ton;
The more he took phyfic the worfe ftill he grew,
And tapping was now the laft thing he could do.
Affairs at this crifis, and doctors come down,
He began to confider-fo fent for his fon.
Tom, fee by what courfes I've fhorten'd my life
I am leaving the world ere I 'm forty and five;
More than probable 'tis, that in twenty-four hours
This manor, this houfe, and eftate will be yours;
My early exceffes may teach you this truth,
That 'tis working for death to drink hard in one's
youth.

Says Tom (who's a lad of a generous fpirit, And not like young rakes, who 're in hafte to inherit)

Sir, don't be difhearten'd; altho' it be true,
Th' operation is painful, and hazardous too,
'Tis no more than what many a man has gone

EPIGRAMS from MARTIAL.

To James Harris, Efq.

MARTIAL, Book iv. Ep. 87.

WOULDST thou, by Attic tate approv'd,
By all be read, by all be lov'd,
To learned Harris' curious eye,
By me advis'd, dear Mufe, apply:
In him the perfect judge you 'll find,
In him the candid friend, and kind.
If he repeats, if he approves,
If he the laughing mufcles moves,
Thou nor the critic's fueer fhait mind,
Nor be to pies or trunks confign'd.
If he condemns, away you fly,
And mount in paper-kites the fky,
Or dead 'mongst Grub-street's records lie.

Book i. Ep. 11.

CURMUDGEON the rich widow courts,
Nor lovely the, nor made for fports;
'Tis to Curmudgeon charm enough,
That he has got a church-yard cough.

Of eatables a flender hoard. "Your pride, and not your victuals, fpare; "I came to dine, and not to stare." Book vii. Ep. 75.

gray,

WHEN dukes in town ask thee to dine,
To rule their roaft, and fmack their wine;
Or take thee to their country-feat,
To mark their dogs, and bless their meat;
dream not on preferment foon,
Thou 'rt not their friend, but their buffoon.
Book viii. Ep. 35.

Youfell your wife's rich jewels, lace, and clothes;
The price once paid, away the purchase goes:
But he a better bargain proves, I 'm told;
Still fold returas, and ftill is to be fold.

Book i. Ep. 40.

IS there, t' enroll amongst the friendly few, Whofe names pure faith and ancient fame renew?

Is there, en ich'd with virtue's honeft store,
Deep vers'd in Latian and Athenian lore?
Is there, who right maintains, and truth pursues,
Nor knows a with that Heaven can refuse?
Is there, who can on his great felf depend?
Now let me die, but Harris is this friend.
Book ii. Ep. 80.

WHEN Fannius fhould have 'fcap'd his foe,

His own hands ftopp'd his breath: And was 't not madness, I would know, By dying, to 'fcape death?

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The