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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 betray’d:

Poor Y-rs sold for fifty pounds,
And B–ll is a jade.

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Adieu to all but Gay alone,
Whose soul, sincere and free,

Loves all mankind, but flatters none,
And so may starve with me.

THE FOLLOWING LINES WERE SUNG BY DURASTANTI, WHEN SHE TOOK HER LEAVE OF THE ENGLISH STAGE.

THE WORDS WERE IN HASTE PUT TOGETHER BY MR. POPE, AT THE REQUEST OF THE EARL OF PETERBOROUGIL,

GENEROUs, gay, and gallant nation,
Bold in arms, and bright in arts;
Land secure from all invasion,
All but Cupid's gentle darts!
From your charms, oh who would run?
Who would leave you for the sun?

Happy soil, adieu, adieu!
Let old charmers yield to new.
In arms, in arts, be still more shining;
All your joys be still increasing;
All your tastes be still refining;
All your jars for ever ceasing:
IBut let old charmers yield to new:—
Happy soil, adieu, adieu!

UPON THE DUKE OF MARLIBOROUGH’S HOUSE - AT WOODSTOCK.

Atria longa patent; sed nec coenantibus usquam,
Nec somno locus est: quâm bene non habitas I
MART. Epig.

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 any wind.
This gallery's contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber for debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state.

Thanks, sir, cried 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.

VERSES LEFT BY MR. POPE,

on HIs LYING IN THE SAME BED WHICH WILMOT, THE CETEBRATED EARL OF ROCHESTER, SLEPT IN, AT ADDERBURY, THEN BELONGING TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLE, JULY 9, 1739,

WITH no poetic ardour fired
I press the bed where Wilmot lay;

That here he loved, or here expired,
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.

TEI E CIH A LIL EN G. E.
A COURT BALLAD.
To the tune of “To all you ladies now at land,” &c.

I.

To one fair lady out of court,

And two fair ladies in,
Who think the Turk and Pope a sport,

And wit and love no sin;
Come, these soft lines, with nothing stiffin,
To Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin,

With a fa, la, la,

II.

What passes in the dark third row,
And what behind the scene,
Couches and crippled chairs I know,
And garrets hung with green;
I know the swing of sinful hack,
Where many damsels cry alack.
With a fa, la, la.

III.

Then why to courts should I repair,
Where's such ado with Townshend?
To hear each mortal stamp and swear,
And every speech with Zounds end;
To hear 'em rail at honest Sunderland,
And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.
With a fa, la, la. -

IV.

Alas! like Schutz I cannot pun,
Like Grafton court the Germans;
Tell Pickenbourg how slim she's grown,
Like Meadows run to sermons;
To court ambitious men may roam,
But I and Marlbro’ stay at home.
With a fa, la, la,

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In truth, by what I can discern,
Of courtiers 'twixt you three,
Some wit you have, and more may learn
From court, than Gay or me:
Perhaps, in time, you’ll leave high diet,
To sup with us on milk and quiet.
With a fa, la, la.

VI.

At Leicester-Fields, a house full high,
With door all painted green,
Where ribbons wave upon the tie,
(A milliner I mean;)
There may you meet us three to three,
For Gay can well make two of me.
With a fa, la, la. -

VII.

But should you catch the prudish itch,
And each become a coward,
Bring sometimes with you Lady Rich,
And sometimes Mistress Howard;
For virgins, to keep chaste, must go
Abroad with such as are not so.
With a fa, la, la.

VIII.

And thus, fair maids, my ballad ends:
God send the king safe landing;
And make all honest ladies friends
To armies that are standing;
Preserve the limits of those nations,
And take off ladies' limitations.
With a fa, la, la,

THE THREE GENTLE SHEPHERDS.

OF gentle Philips will I ever sing,
With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring;
My numbers too for ever will T vary,
With gentle Budgell, and with gentle Carey.
Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill,
With gentle Carey and with gentle Budgell:
Oh! may all gentle bards together place ye,
Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy.
May satire ne'er befool ye, or beknave ye,
And from all wits that have a knack, God save ye.

VERSES TO DR. BOLTON,

IN THE NAME OF MRS. BUTLER's SPIRIT, LATELY DECEASED,

STRIPP'D to the naked soul, escaped from clay,
From doubts unfetter'd, and dissolved in day;
TJnwarm'd by vanity, unreach'd by strife,
And all my hopes and fears thrown off with life;

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