Poem – Sound & Sense 

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, 
As those move easiest who have learned to dance. 

‘Tis not enough no harshness gives offense, 

The sound must seem an echo to the sense: 

Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, 

And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; 

But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 

The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar; 

When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to throw, 

The line too labors, and the words move slow; 

Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, 

Flies o’er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. 

Hear how Timotheus’ varied lays surprise, 

And bid alternate passions fall and rise! 

Poem  – Ode on Solitude

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground.
Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire,

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.
Blest! who can unconcern’dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease

Together mix’d; sweet recreation,

And innocence, which most does please,

With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me dye;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lye. 

Poem – Chorus of Youths and Virgins


Oh Tyrant Love! hast thou possest

The prudent, learn’d, and virtuous breast?

Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,

And Arts but soften us to feel thy flame.

Love, soft intruder, enters here,

But ent’ring learns to be sincere.

Marcus with blushes owns he loves, 

And Brutus tenderly reproves.

Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire,

Which Nature has imprest?

Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire

The mild and gen’rous breast?

Love’s purer flames the Gods approve;

The Gods and Brutus bent to love:

Brutus for absent Portia sighs,

And sterner Cassius melts at Junia’s eyes.

What is loose love? a transient gust,

Spent in a sudden storm of lust,

A vapour fed from wild desire,

A wand’ring, self-consuming fire,

But Hymen’s kinder flames unite;

And burn for ever one;

Chaste as cold Cynthia’s virgin light,

Productive as the Sun.

Oh source of ev’ry social tie,

United wish, and mutual joy!

What various joys on one attend,

As son, as father, brother husband, friend?

Whether his hoary sire he spies,

While thousand grateful thoughts arise;

Or meets his spouse’s fonder eye;

Or views his smiling progeny;

What tender passions take their turns,

What home-felt raptures move?

His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,

With rev’rence, hope, and love.

Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmises,

Hence false tears, deceits, disguises,

Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises;

Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine

Purest love’s unwasting treasure,

Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure,

Days of ease, and nights of pleasure;

Sacred Hymen! these are thine. 

Poem – Chorus Of Athenians

Strophe I.
Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought;

Groves, where immortal Sages taught;

Where heav’nly visions of Plato fir’d,

And Epicurus lay inspir’d!

In vain your guiltless laurels stood

Unspotted long with human blood.

War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,

And steel now glitters in the Muses’ shades.
Antistrophe I. 

Oh heav’n-born sisters! source of art!

Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;

Who lead fair Virtue’s train along,

Moral Truth, and mystic Song!

To what new clime, what distant sky,

Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?

Say, will you bless the bleak Atlantic shore?

Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?
Strophe II.

When Athens sinks by fates unjust,

When wild Barbarians spurn her dust;

Perhaps ev’n Britain’s utmost shore,

Shall cease to blush with strager’s gore.

See Arts her savage sons control,

And Athens rising near the pole!

‘Till some new Tyrant lifts his purple hand,

And civil madness tears them from this land.
Antistrophe II.

Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball?

Freedom and Arts together fall; 

Fools grant whate’er Ambition craves,

And men, once ignorant, are slaves.

Oh curs’d effects of civil hate,

In ev’ry age, in ev’ry state!

Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds,

Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds. 

Poem – Verses Left My Mr.Pope

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 gay.
Beneath 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. 

Poem – Macer: A Character 

When simple Macer, now of high renown,
First fought a Poet’s Fortune in the Town,

‘Twas all th’ Ambition his high soul could feel,

To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele.

Some Ends of verse his Betters might afford, 

And gave the harmless fellow a good word.

Set up with these he ventur’d on the Town,

And with a borrow’d Play, out-did poor Crown.

There he stopp’d short, nor since has write a tittle,

But has the wit to make the most of little;

Like stunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got

Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot.

Now he begs Verse, and what he gets commends,

Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends.
So some coarse Country Wench, almost decay’d,

Trudges to town, and first turns Chambermaid;

Awkward and supple, each devoir to pay;

She flatters her good Lady twice a day;

Thought wond’rous honest, tho’ of mean degree,

And strangely lik’d for her Simplicity:

In a translated Suit, then tries the Town, 

With borrow’d Pins, and Patches not her own:

But just endur’d the winter she began,

And in four months a batter’d Harridan. 

Now nothing left, but wither’d, pale, and shrunk,

To bawd for others, and go shares with Punk. 

The Rape Of The Lock – Alexander Pope

 Canto 1

Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos; 

Sedjuvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis. 

(Martial, Epigrams 12.84) 

What dire offence from am’rous causes springs, 

What mighty contests rise from trivial things, 

I sing–This verse to Caryl, Muse! is due: 

This, ev’n Belinda may vouchsafe to view: 

Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, 

If she inspire, and he approve my lays. 

Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel 

A well-bred lord t’ assault a gentle belle? 

O say what stranger cause, yet unexplor’d, 

Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? 

In tasks so bold, can little men engage, 

And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage? 
Sol thro’ white curtains shot a tim’rous ray, 

And op’d those eyes that must eclipse the day; 

Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake, 

And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake: 

Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock’d the ground, 

And the press’d watch return’d a silver sound. 

Belinda still her downy pillow press’d, 

Her guardian sylph prolong’d the balmy rest: 

‘Twas he had summon’d to her silent bed 

The morning dream that hover’d o’er her head; 

A youth more glitt’ring than a birthnight beau, 

(That ev’n in slumber caus’d her cheek to glow) 

Seem’d to her ear his winning lips to lay, 

And thus in whispers said, or seem’d to say. 
“Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish’d care 

Of thousand bright inhabitants of air! 

If e’er one vision touch’d thy infant thought, 

Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught, 

Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, 

The silver token, and the circled green, 

Or virgins visited by angel pow’rs, 

With golden crowns and wreaths of heav’nly flow’rs, 

Hear and believe! thy own importance know, 

Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. 

Some secret truths from learned pride conceal’d, 

To maids alone and children are reveal’d: 

What tho’ no credit doubting wits may give? 

The fair and innocent shall still believe. 

Know then, unnumber’d spirits round thee fly, 

The light militia of the lower sky; 

These, though unseen, are ever on theg, 

Hang o’er the box, and hover round the Ring. 

Think what an equipage thou hast in air, 

And view with scorn two pages and a chair. 

As now your own, our beings were of old, 

And once inclos’d in woman’s beauteous mould; 

Thence, by a soft transition, we repair 

From earthly vehicles to these of air. 

Think not, when woman’s transient breath is fled, 

That all her vanities at once are dead; 

Succeeding vanities she still regards, 

And tho’ she plays no more, o’erlooks the cards. 

Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, 

And love of ombre, after death survive. 

For when the fair in all their pride expire, 

To their first elements their souls retire: 

The sprites of fiery termagants in flame 

Mount up, and take a Salamander’s name. 

Soft yielding minds to water glide away, 

And sip with Nymphs, their elemental tea. 

The graver prude sinks downward to a Gnome, 

In search of mischief still on earth to roam. 

The light coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair, 

And sport and flutter in the fields of air. 
Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste 

Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embrac’d: 

For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease 

Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. 

What guards the purity of melting maids, 

In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades, 

Safe from the treach’rous friend, the daring spark, 

The glance by day, the whisper in the dark, 

When kind occasion prompts their warm desires, 

When music softens, and when dancing fires? 

‘Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know, 

Though honour is the word with men below. 
Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face, 

For life predestin’d to the gnomes’ embrace. 

These swell their prospects and exalt their pride, 

When offers are disdain’d, and love denied: 

Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, 

While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train, 

And garters, stars, and coronets appear, 

And in soft sounds ‘Your Grace’ salutes their ear. 

‘Tis these that early taint the female soul, 

Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll, 

Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know, 

And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 
Oft, when the world imagine women stray, 

The Sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way, 

Thro’ all the giddy circle they pursue, 

And old impertinence expel by new. 

What tender maid but must a victim fall 

To one man’s treat, but for another’s ball? 

When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand, 

If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? 

With varying vanities, from ev’ry part, 

They shift the moving toyshop of their heart; 

Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive, 

Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. 

This erring mortals levity may call, 

Oh blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all. 

Of these am I, who thy protection claim, 

A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. 

Late, as I rang’d the crystal wilds of air, 

In the clear mirror of thy ruling star 

I saw, alas! some dread event impend, 

Ere to the main this morning sun descend, 

But Heav’n reveals not what, or how, or where: 

Warn’d by the Sylph, oh pious maid, beware! 

This to disclose is all thy guardian can. 

Beware of all, but most beware of man!” 

He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long, 

Leap’d up, and wak’d his mistress with his tongue. 

‘Twas then, Belinda, if report say true, 

Thy eyes first open’d on a billet-doux; 

Wounds, charms, and ardors were no sooner read, 

But all the vision vanish’d from thy head. 

And now, unveil’d, the toilet stands display’d, 

Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 

First, rob’d in white, the nymph intent adores 

With head uncover’d, the cosmetic pow’rs. 

A heav’nly image in the glass appears, 

To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; 

Th’ inferior priestess, at her altar’s side, 

Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride. 

Unnumber’d treasures ope at once, and here 

The various off’rings of the world appear; 

From each she nicely culls with curious toil, 

And decks the goddess with the glitt’ring spoil. 

This casket India’s glowing gems unlocks, 

And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 

The tortoise here and elephant unite, 

Transform’d to combs, the speckled and the white. 

Here files of pins extend their shining rows, 

Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. 

Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; 

The fair each moment rises in her charms, 

Repairs her smiles, awakens ev’ry grace, 

And calls forth all the wonders of her face; 

Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 

And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 

The busy Sylphs surround their darling care; 

These set the head, and those divide the hair, 

Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown; 

And Betty’s prais’d for labours not her own.

The Dunciad – Alexander Pope

Book II

High on a gorgeous seat, that far out-shone 

Henley’s gilt tub, or Flecknoe’s Irish throne, 

Or that where on her Curlls the public pours, 

All-bounteous, fragrant grains and golden showers, 

Great Cibber sate: the proud Parnassian sneer, 

The conscious simper, and the jealous leer, 

Mix on his look: all eyes direct their rays 

On him, and crowds turn coxcombs as they gaze. 

His peers shine round him with reflected grace, 

New edge their dulness, and new bronze their face. 

So from the sun’s broad beam, in shallow urns 

Heaven’s twinkling sparks draw light, and point their horns. 
Not with more glee, by hands Pontific crown’d, 

With scarlet hats wide-waving circled round, 

Rome in her Capitol saw Querno sit, 

Throned on seven hills, the Antichrist of wit. 
And now the queen, to glad her sons, proclaims 

By herald hawkers, high heroic games. 

They summon all her race: an endless band 

Pours forth, and leaves unpeopled half the land. 

A motley mixture! in long wigs, in bags, 

In silks, in crapes, in garters, and in rags, 

From drawing-rooms, from colleges, from garrets, 

On horse, on foot, in hacks, and gilded chariots: 

All who true dunces in her cause appear’d, 

And all who knew those dunces to reward. 
Amid that area wide they took their stand, 

Where the tall maypole once o’er-looked the Strand, 

But now (so Anne and piety ordain) 

A church collects the saints of Drury Lane. 
With authors, stationers obey’d the call, 

(The field of glory is a field for all). 

Glory and gain the industrious tribe provoke; 

And gentle Dulness ever loves a joke. 

A poet’s form she placed before their eyes, 

And bade the nimblest racer seize the prize; 

No meagre, muse-rid mope, adust and thin, 

In a dun night-gown of his own loose skin; 

But such a bulk as no twelve bards could raise, 

Twelve starveling bards of these degenerate days. 

All as a partridge plump, full-fed, and fair, 

She form’d this image of well-bodied air; 

With pert flat eyes she window’d well its head; 

A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead; 

And empty words she gave, and sounding strain, 

But senseless, lifeless! idol void and vain! 

Never was dash’d out, at one lucky hit, 

A fool, so just a copy of a wit; 

So like, that critics said, and courtiers swore, 

A wit it was, and call’d the phantom More. 
All gaze with ardour: some a poet’s name, 

Others a sword-knot and laced suit inflame. 

But lofty Lintot in the circle rose: 

‘This prize is mine; who tempt it are my foes; 

With me began this genius, and shall end.’ 

He spoke: and who with Lintot shall contend? 

Fear held them mute. Alone, untaught to fear, 

Stood dauntless Curll: ‘Behold that rival here! 

The race by vigour, not by vaunts is won; 

So take the hindmost Hell.’ He said, and run. 

Swift as a bard the bailiff leaves behind, 

He left huge Lintot, and out-stripp’d the wind. 

As when a dab-chick waddles through the copse 

On feet and wings, and flies, and wades, and hops: 

So labouring on, with shoulders, hands, and head, 

Wide as a wind-mill all his figure spread, 

With arms expanded Bernard rows his state, 

And left-legg’d Jacob seems to emulate. 

Full in the middle way there stood a lake, 

Which Curll’s Corinna chanced that morn to make: 

(Such was her wont, at early dawn to drop 

Her evening cates before his neighbour’s shop,) 

Here fortuned Curll to slide; loud shout the band, 

And Bernard! Bernard! rings through all the Strand. 

Obscene with filth the miscreant lies bewray’d, 

Fallen in the plash his wickedness had laid: 

Then first (if poets aught of truth declare) 

The caitiff vaticide conceived a prayer: 

‘Hear, Jove! whose name my bards and I adore, 

As much at least as any god’s, or more; 

And him and his if more devotion warms, 

Down with the Bible, up with the Pope’s arms.’ 
A place there is, betwixt earth, air, and seas, 

Where, from Ambrosia, Jove retires for ease. 

There in his seat two spacious vents appear, 

On this he sits, to that he leans his ear, 

And hears the various vows of fond mankind; 

Some beg an eastern, some a western wind: 

All vain petitions, mounting to the sky, 

With reams abundant this abode supply; 

Amused he reads, and then returns the bills 

Sign’d with that ichor which from gods distils. 
In office here fair Cloacina stands, 

And ministers to Jove with purest hands. 

Forth from the heap she pick’d her votary’s prayer, 

And placed it next him, a distinction rare! 

Oft had the goddess heard her servant’s call, 

From her black grottos near the Temple-wall, 

Listening delighted to the jest unclean 

Of link-boys vile, and watermen obscene; 

Where as he fish’d her nether realms for wit, 

She oft had favour’d him, and favours yet. 

Renew’d by ordure’s sympathetic force, 

As oil’d with magic juices for the course, 

Vigorous he rises; from the effluvia strong 

Imbibes new life, and scours and stinks along; 

Repasses Lintot, vindicates the race, 

Nor heeds the brown dishonours of his face. 
And now the victor stretch’d his eager hand 

Where the tall Nothing stood, or seem’d to stand; 

A shapeless shade, it melted from his sight, 

Like forms in clouds, or visions of the night. 

To seize his papers, Curll, was next thy care; 

His papers light, fly diverse, toss’d in air; 

Songs, sonnets, epigrams the winds uplift, 

And whisk them back to Evans, Young, and Swift. 

The embroider’d suit at least he deem’d his prey, 

That suit an unpaid tailor snatch’d away. 

No rag, no scrap, of all the beau, or wit, 

That once so flutter’d, and that once so writ. 
Heaven rings with laughter: of the laughter vain, 

Dulness, good queen, repeats the jest again. 

Three wicked imps, of her own Grub Street choir, 

She deck’d like Congreve, Addison, and Prior; 

Mears, Warner, Wilkins run: delusive thought! 

Breval, Bond, Bezaleel, the varlets caught. 

Curll stretches after Gay, but Gay is gone, 

He grasps an empty Joseph for a John: 

So Proteus, hunted in a nobler shape, 

Became, when seized, a puppy, or an ape. 
To him the goddess: ‘Son! thy grief lay down, 

And turn this whole illusion on the town: 

As the sage dame, experienced in her trade, 

By names of toasts retails each batter’d jade; 

(Whence hapless Monsieur much complains at Paris 

Of wrongs from duchesses and Lady Maries 

Be thine, my stationer! this magic gift; 

Cook shall be Prior, and Concanen, Swift: 

So shall each hostile name become our own, 

And we too boast our Garth and Addison.’ 
With that she gave him (piteous of his case, 

Yet smiling at his rueful length of face) 

A shaggy tapestry, worthy to be spread 

On Codrus’ old, or Dunton’s modern bed; 

Instructive work! whose wry-mouth’d portraiture 

Display’d the fates her confessors endure. 

Earless on high, stood unabash’d Defoe, 

And Tutchin flagrant from the scourge below. 

There Ridpath, Roper, cudgell’d might ye view, 

The very worsted still look’d black and blue. 

Himself among the storied chiefs he spies, 

As, from the blanket, high in air he flies, 

And oh! (he cried) what street, what lane but knows 

Our purgings, pumpings, blanketings, and blows? 

In every loom our labours shall be seen, 

And the fresh vomit run for ever green! 
See in the circle next, Eliza placed, 

Two babes of love close clinging to her waist; 

Fair as before her works she stands confess’d, 

In flowers and pearls by bounteous Kirkall dress’d. 

The goddess then: ‘Who best can send on high 

The salient spout, far-streaming to the sky; 

His be yon Juno of majestic size, 

With cow-like udders, and with ox-like eyes. 

This China Jordan let the chief o’ercome 

Replenish, not ingloriously, at home.’ 
Osborne and Curll accept the glorious strife, 

(Though this his son dissuades, and that his wife 

One on his manly confidence relies, 

One on his vigour and superior size. 

First Osborne lean’d against his letter’d post; 

It rose, and labour’d to a curve at most. 

So Jove’s bright bow displays its watery round 

(Sure sign, that no spectator shall be drown’d), 

A second effort brought but new disgrace, 

The wild meander wash’d the artist’s face: 

Thus the small jet, which hasty hands unlock, 

Spurts in the gardener’s eyes who turns the cock. 

Not so from shameless Curll; impetuous spread 

The stream, and smoking flourish’d o’er his head. 

So (famed like thee for turbulence and horns) 

Eridanus his humble fountain scorns; 

Through half the heavens he pours the exalted urn; 

His rapid waters in their passage burn. 
Swift as it mounts, all follow with their eyes: 

Still happy impudence obtains the prize. 

Thou triumph’st, victor of the high-wrought day, 

And the pleased dame, soft-smiling, lead’st away. 

Osborne, through perfect modesty o’ercome, 

Crown’d with the Jordan, walks contented home. 
But now for authors nobler palms remain; 

Room for my lord! three jockeys in his train; 

Six huntsmen with a shout precede his chair: 

He grins, and looks broad nonsense with a stare. 

His honour’s meaning Dulness thus express’d, 

‘He wins this patron, who can tickle best.’ 
He chinks his purse, and takes his seat of state: 

With ready quills the dedicators wait; 

Now at his head the dext’rous task commence, 

And, instant, fancy feels the imputed sense; 

Now gentle touches wanton o’er his face, 

He struts Adonis, and affects grimace: 

Rolli the feather to his ear conveys, 

Then his nice taste directs our operas: 

Bentley his mouth with classic flattery opes, 

And the puff’d orator bursts out in tropes. 

But Welsted most the poet’s healing balm 

Strives to extract from his soft, giving palm; 

Unlucky Welsted! thy unfeeling master, 

The more thou ticklest, gripes his fist the faster. 
While thus each hand promotes the pleasing pain, 

And quick sensations skip from vein to vein; 

A youth unknown to Phoebus, in despair, 

Puts his last refuge all in Heaven and prayer. 

What force have pious vows! The Queen of Love 

Her sister sends, her votaress, from above. 

As taught by Venus, Paris learn’d the art 

To touch Achilles’ only tender part; 

Secure, through her, the noble prize to carry, 

He marches off, his Grace’s secretary. 
‘Now turn to different sports (the goddess cries), 

And learn, my sons, the wondrous power of noise. 

To move, to raise, to ravish every heart, 

With Shakspeare’s nature, or with Jonson’s art, 

Let others aim: ’tis yours to shake the soul 

With thunder rumbling from the mustard bowl, 

With horns and trumpets now to madness swell, 

Now sink in sorrows with a tolling bell; 

Such happy arts attention can command, 

When fancy flags, and sense is at a stand. 

Improve we these. Three cat-calls be the bribe 

Of him whose chattering shames the monkey tribe: 

And his this drum whose hoarse heroic bass 

Drowns the loud clarion of the braying ass.’ 
Now thousand tongues are heard in one loud din: 

The monkey-mimics rush discordant in; 

‘Twas chattering, grinning, mouthing, jabbering all, 

And noise and Norton, brangling and Breval, 

Dennis and dissonance, and captious art, 

And snip-snap short, and interruption smart, 

And demonstration thin, and theses thick, 

And major, minor, and conclusion quick. 

‘Hold’ (cried the queen) ‘a cat-call each shall win; 

Equal your merits! equal is your din! 

But that this well-disputed game may end, 

Sound forth, nay brayers, and the welkin rend.’ 
As when the long-ear’d milky mothers wait 

At some sick miser’s triple-bolted gate, 

For their defrauded, absent foals they make 

A moan so loud, that all the guild awake; 

Sore sighs Sir Gilbert, starting at the bray, 

From dreams of millions, and three groats to pay. 

So swells each windpipe; ass intones to ass, 

Harmonic twang! of leather, horn, and brass; 

Such as from labouring lungs the enthusiast blows, 

High sound, attemper’d to the vocal nose, 

Or such as bellow from the deep divine; 

There, Webster! peal’d thy voice, and, Whitfield! thine. 

But far o’er all, sonorous Blackmore’s strain; 

Walls, steeples, skies, bray back to him again. 

In Tottenham fields, the brethren, with amaze, 

Prick all their ears up, and forget to graze; 

‘Long Chancery Lane retentive rolls the sound, 

And courts to courts return it round and round; 

Thames wafts it thence to Rufus’ roaring hall, 

And Hungerford re-echoes bawl for bawl. 

All hail him victor in both gifts of song, 

Who sings so loudly, and who sings so long. 
This labour past, by Bridewell all descend, 

(As morning prayer, and flagellation end) 

To where Fleet-ditch with disemboguing streams 

Rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames, 

The king of dikes! than whom no sluice of mud 

With deeper sable blots the silver flood. 

‘Here strip, my children! here at once leap in, 

Here prove who best can dash through thick and thin, 

And who the most in love of dirt excel, 

Or dark dexterity of groping well. 

Who flings most filth, and wide pollutes around 

The stream, be his the weekly journals bound; 

A pig of lead to him who dives the best; 

A peck of coals a-piece shall glad the rest.’ 
In naked majesty Oldmixon stands, 

And, Milo-like, surveys his arms and hands; 

Then sighing, thus, ‘And am I now threescore? 

Ah why, ye gods! should two and two make four?’ 

He said, and climb’d a stranded lighter’s height, 

Shot to the black abyss, and plunged downright. 

The senior’s judgment all the crowd admire, 

Who but to sink the deeper, rose the higher. 
Next Smedley dived; slow circles dimpled o’er 

The quaking mud, that closed, and oped no more. 

All look, all sigh, and call on Smedley lost; 

‘Smedley!’ in vain, resounds through all the coast. 
Then Hill essay’d; scarce vanish’d out of sight, 

He buoys up instant, and returns to light: 

He bears no token of the sable streams, 

And mounts far off among the swans of Thames. 
True to the bottom, see Concanen creep, 

A cold, long-winded, native of the deep: 

If perseverance gain the diver’s prize, 

Not everlasting Blackmore this denies: 

No noise, no stir, no motion can’st thou make, 

The unconscious stream sleeps o’er thee like a lake. 
Next plunged a feeble, but a desperate pack, 

With each a sickly brother at his back: 

Sons of a day! just buoyant on the flood, 

Then number’d with the puppies in the mud. 

Ask ye their names? I could as soon disclose 

The names of these blind puppies as of those. 

Fast by, like Niobe (her children gone) 

Sits Mother Osborne, stupified to stone! 

And monumental brass this record bears, 

‘These are,-ah no! these were, the gazetteers!’ 
Not so bold Arnall; with a weight of skull, 

Furious he dives, precipitately dull. 

Whirlpools and storms his circling arm invest, 

With all the might of gravitation bless’d. 

No crab more active in the dirty dance, 

Downward to climb, and backward to advance. 

He brings up half the bottom on his head, 

And loudly claims the journals and the lead. 
The plunging Prelate, and his ponderous Grace, 

With holy envy gave one layman place. 

When, lo! a burst of thunder shook the flood, 

Slow rose a form, in majesty of mud: 

Shaking the horrors of his sable brows, 

And each ferocious feature grim with ooze. 

Greater he looks, and more than mortal stares: 

Then thus the wonders of the deep declares. 
First he relates, how sinking to the chin, 

Smit with his mien, the mud-nymphs suck’d him in: 

How young Lutetia, softer than the down, 

Nigrina black, and Merdamante brown, 

Vied for his love in jetty bowers below, 

As Hylas fair was ravish’d long ago. 

Then sung, how, shown him by the nut-brown maids; 

A branch of Styx here rises from the shades, 

That, tinctured as it runs with Lethe’s streams, 

And wafting vapours from the land of dreams, 

(As under seas Alpheus’ secret sluice 

Bears Pisa’s offerings to his Arethuse,) 

Pours into Thames: and hence the mingled wave 

Intoxicates the pert, and lulls the grave: 

Here brisker vapours o’er the Temple creep, 

There, all from Paul’s to Aldgate drink and sleep. 
Thence to the banks where reverend bards repose, 

They led him soft; each reverend bard arose; 

And Milbourn chief, deputed by the rest, 

Gave him the cassock, surcingle, and vest. 

‘Receive (he said) these robes which once were mine, 

Dulness is sacred in a sound divine.’ 
He ceased, and spread the robe; the crowd confess 

The reverend Flamen in his lengthen’d dress. 

Around him wide a sable army stand, 

A low-born, cell-bred, selfish, servile band, 

Prompt or to guard or stab, to saint or damn, 

Heaven’s Swiss, who fight for any god, or man. 

Through Lud’s famed gates, along the well-known Fleet

Rolls the black troop, and overshades the street, 

Till showers of sermons, characters, essays, 

In circling fleeces whiten all the ways: 

So clouds replenish’d from some bog below, 

Mount in dark volumes, and descend in snow. 

Here stopp’d the goddess; and in pomp proclaims 

A gentler exercise to close the games. 
‘Ye critics! in whose heads, as equal scales, 

I weigh what author’s heaviness prevails, 

Which most conduce to soothe the soul in slumbers, 

My Henley’s periods, or my Blackmore’s numbers, 

Attend the trial we propose to make: 

If there be man, who o’er such works can wake, 

Sleep’s all-subduing charms who dares defy, 

And boasts Ulysses’ ear with Argus’ eye; 

To him we grant our amplest powers to sit 

Judge of all present, past, and future wit; 

To cavil, censure, dictate, right or wrong, 

Full and eternal privilege of tongue.’ 
Three college Sophs, and three pert Templars came, 

The same their talents, and their tastes the same; 

Each prompt to query, answer, and debate, 

And smit with love of poesy and prate. 

The ponderous books two gentle readers bring; 

The heroes sit, the vulgar form a ring. 

The clamorous crowd is hush’d with mugs of mum, 

Till all, tuned equal, send a general hum. 

Then mount the clerks, and in one lazy tone 

Through the long, heavy, painful page drawl on; 

Soft creeping, words on words, the sense compose, 

At every line they stretch, they yawn, they doze. 

As to soft gales top-heavy pines bow low 

Their heads, and lift them as they cease to blow, 

Thus oft they rear, and oft the head decline, 

As breathe, or pause, by fits, the airs divine; 

And now to this side, now to that they nod, 

As verse or prose infuse the drowsy god. 

Thrice Budgell aim’d to speak, but thrice suppress’d 

By potent Arthur, knock’d his chin and breast. 

Toland and Tindal, prompt at priests to jeer, 

Yet silent bow’d to Christ’s no kingdom here. 

Who sate the nearest, by the words o’ercome, 

Slept first; the distant nodded to the hum. 

Then down are roll’d the books; stretch’d o’er ’em lies 

Each gentle clerk, and, muttering, seals his eyes, 

As what a Dutchman plumps into the lakes, 

One circle first, and then a second makes; 

What Dulness dropp’d among her sons impress’d 

Like motion from one circle to the rest; 

So from the midmost the nutation spreads 

Round and more round, o’er all the sea of heads. 

At last Centlivre felt her voice to fail, 

Motteux himself unfinished left his tale, 

Boyer the state, and Law the stage gave o’er, 

Morgan and Mandeville could prate no more; 

Norton, from Daniel and Ostroea sprung, 

Bless’d with his father’s front and mother’s tongue, 

Hung silent down his never-blushing head; 

And all was hush’d, as Polly’s self lay dead. 
Thus the soft gifts of sleep conclude the day, 

And stretch’d on bulks, as usual, poets lay. 

Why should I sing what bards the nightly Muse 

Did slumbering visit, and convey to stews; 

Who prouder march’d, with magistrates in state, 

To some famed round-house, ever open gate! 

How Henley lay inspired beside a sink, 

And to mere mortals seem’d a priest in drink; 

While others, timely, to the neighbouring Fleet 

(Haunt of the Muses!) made their safe retreat?

Poem – Celia – Alexander Pope.

Celia, we know, is sixty-five, 

Yet Celia’s face is seventeen; 

Thus winter in her breast must live, 

While summer in her face is seen. 
How cruel Celia’s fate, who hence 

Our heart’s devotion cannot try; 

Too pretty for our reverence, 

Too ancient for our gallantry!

Poem – Argus – Alexander Pope

When wise Ulysses, from his native coast 

Long kept by wars, and long by tempests toss’d, 

Arrived at last, poor, old, disguised, alone, 

To all his friends, and ev’n his Queen unknown, 

Changed as he was, with age, and toils, and cares, 

Furrow’d his rev’rend face, and white his hairs, 

In his own palace forc’d to ask his bread, 

Scorn’d by those slaves his former bounty fed, 

Forgot of all his own domestic crew, 

The faithful Dog alone his rightful master knew! 
Unfed, unhous’d, neglected, on the clay 

Like an old servant now cashier’d, he lay; 

Touch’d with resentment of ungrateful man, 

And longing to behold his ancient lord again. 

Him when he saw he rose, and crawl’d to meet, 

(‘Twas all he could) and fawn’d and kiss’d his feet, 

Seiz’d with dumb joy; then falling by his side, 

Own’d his returning lord, look’d up, and died!

Poem – Farewell To London – Alexander Pope

Dear, damn’d distracting town, farewell! 

Thy fools no more I’ll tease: 

This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, 

Ye harlots, sleep at ease! 
Soft B– and rough C–s adieu, 

Earl Warwick made 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; 

Let Jervas gratis paint, and Frowde 

Save three-pence and his soul. 
Farewell, Arbuthnot’s raillery 

On every learned sot; 

And Garth, the best good Christian he, 

Although 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 wits in envious feuds engage: 

And Homer (damn him!) calls. 
The love of arts lies cold and dead 

In Halifax’s urn: 

And not one Muse of all he fed 

Has yet the grace to mourn. 
My friends, by turns, my friends confound, 

Betray, and are betrayed: 

Poor Y–r’s sold for fifty pound, 

And B–ll is a jade. 
Why make I friendships with the great, 

When I no favour seek? 

Or follow girls, seven hours in eight? 

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 others’ ends, 

Though 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 salads, 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.

Poem –  Verses Left By Mr. Pope – Alexander Pope.

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 gay. 

Beneath 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.

Poem – Weeping – Alexander Pope

While Celia’s Tears make sorrow bright, 

Proud Grief sits swelling in her eyes; 

The Sun, next those the fairest light, 

Thus from the Ocean first did rise: 

And thus thro’ Mists we see the Sun, 

Which else we durst not gaze upon. 

These silver drops, like morning dew, 

Foretell the fervour of the day: 

So from one Cloud soft show’rs we view, 

And blasting lightnings burst away. 

The Stars that fall from Celia’s eye 

Declare our Doom in drawing nigh. 

The Baby in that sunny Sphere 

So like a Phaeton appears, 

That Heav’n, the threaten’d World to spare, 

Thought fit to drown him in her tears; 

Else might th’ ambitious Nymph aspire, 

To set, like him, Heav’n too on fire.