Ne Rubeam, Pingui donatus Munere
(Horace, Epistles II.i.267)
While you, great patron of mankind, s
When wise Ulysses, from his native coast
Long kept by wars, and long by tempests toss'd,
Know then thyself, presume not God to scan;
The proper study of mankind is man.
Plac'd on t
Ye Lords and Commons, Men of Wit,
And Pleasure about Town;
Read this ere you translate one Bit
To Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbroke
Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things
To low ambition,
The Basset-Table spread, the Tallier come;
Why stays Smilinda i
Authors the world and their dull brains have traced
To fix the ground where Paradise was placed;
But our Great Turks in wit must reign alone
And ill can bear a Brother on the Throne.
Oh Tyrant Love! hast thou possest
The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?
I know the thing that's most uncommon;
(Envy be silent and attend!)
I know a Reasonable Woman,
What beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
When other fair ones to the shades go down,
Still Chloe, Flavin, Delia, stay in town:
The Mighty Mother, and her son who brings
The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings,
I sing. Say
Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se
Impediat verbis lassas onerantibus aures:
Flutt'ring spread thy purple Pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my Heart;
I a Slave in thy Dominions
To one fair lady out of Court,
And two fair ladies in,
Who think the Turk and Pope a sport,
In vain you boast Poetic Names of yore,
And cite those Sapho's we admire no more:
Fate doom'd the
In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
Fain would my Muse the flow'ry Treasures sing,
And humble glories of the youthful Spring;
See what delights in sylvan scenes appear!
Descending Gods have found Elysium here.
In woods bri
Awake, my ST. JOHN!(1) leave all meaner things
To low ambition, and the pride of Kings.
Let us (
First in these fields I try the sylvan strains,
Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains:
Parson, these things in thy possessing
Are better than the Bishop's blessing.
A Wife that makes co
So when Curll's Stomach the strong Drench o'ercame,
(Infus'd in Vengenance of insulted Fame)
Vital spark of heav’nly flame!
Quit, O quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, f
Women ben full of Ragerie,
Yet swinken not sans secresie.
Thilke Moral shall ye understond,
NOTHING so true as what you once let fall,
"Most Women have no Characters at all."
Matter too so
Here, shunning idleness at once and praise,
This radiant pile nine rural sisters raise;
Phryne had talents for mankind,
Open she was, and unconfin'd,
Like some free port of trade: