Since Harley bid me first attend,
And chofe me for an humble friend;
Would take me in his coach to chat,
And question me of this and that;
As, "What's o'clock ?" and, "How's the wind?
"Who's chariot's that we left behind ?"
Or gravely try to read the lines.
Writ underneath the country-figns;
Or," Have you nothing new to-day
"From Pope, from Parnel, or from Gay?"
Such tattle often entertains
My Lord and me as far as Stains,
As once a-week we travel down
To Windfor, and again to town,
Where all that paffes inter nos
Might be proclaim'd at Charing-cross.
YET fome I know with envy fwell,
Because they see me us'd fo well:
"How think you of our friend the Dean?
"I wonder what fome people mean;
My Lord and he are grown fo great,
"Always together tête à tête-
"What, they admire him for his jokes-
"See but the fortune of fome folks!"
There flies about a ftrange report
Of some express arriv❜d at court.
I'm ftopp'd by all the fools I meet,
And catechis'd in ev'ry street.
"You, Mr Dean, frequent the great;
"Inform us, will the Emp'ror treat?
Ex quo Mecanas me cœpit habere fuorum
In numero; duntaxat ad hoc, quem tollere rheda
Vellet iter faciens, et cui concredere nugas.
91.---Subjectior in diem et horam
89. Frigidus a roftris manat per compita rumor; Quicunque obvius eft, me confulit.
"Or, do the prints and papers lie?"
Faith, Sir, you know as much as I.
"Ah! Doctor, how you love to jeft!
""Tis now no fecret."- -I protest
'Tis one to me- "Then tell us, pray,
"When are the troops to have their pay?"
And tho' I folemnly declare
I know no more than my Lord Mayor,
They stand amaz’d, and think me grown
The clofeft mortal ever known.
THUS in a fea of folly toft,
'My choiceft hours of life are loft;
Yet always wishing to retreat,
Oh, could I fee my country feat!
There leaning near a gentle brook,
Sleep, or perufe fome antient book!
And there in fweet oblivion drown
Thofe cares that haunt the court and town!
101. Jurantem me fcire nihil, mirantur, ut ünum Scilicet egregii mortalem altique filenti.
198. O rus, quando ego te afpiciam, quandoque licebit Nunc veterum libris, nunc fomno, et inertibus horis Ducere folicita jucunda oblivia vite?
The HAPPY LIFE of a COUNTRY-PARSON.
In Imitation of MARTIAL †.
PARSON, thefe things in thy poffeffing
Are better than the Bishop's bleffing.
A wife that makes conferves; a steed
That carries double when there's need ;
October flore, and best Virginia,
Tythe-pig, and mortuary guinea;
This and the two following poems were wrote by Mr Pope.
Gazettes fent gratis down, and frank'd,
For which thy patron's weekly thank'd ;«
A large concordance, bound long fince;
Sermons to Charles the first, when Prince;~
A chronicle of antient standing;
A Chryfoftom to: fmooth thy hand in;
The polyglott,three parts-my text
Howbeit, -likewife now to my next,-
Lo here the Septuagint, and Paul,-
To fum the whole, the clofe of all.
HE that has thefe, may pafs his life,
Drink with the 'Squire, and kifs his wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fill;
And faft on Fridays-if he will;
Toaft Church and Queen, explain the news,
Talk with church-wardens about pews,
Pray heartily for fome new gift,
And shake his head at Doctor Swift.
Lately found in an old manufcript.
WOMEN, tho' not fans leacherie,
Ne fwinken but with fecrecie:
This in our tale is plain y-fond,
Of Clerk that wonneth in Irelond; ·
Which to the fennes hath him betake,
To filch the gray ducke fro the lake.
Right then there paffen by the way
His aunt, and eke her daughters tway:
Ducke in his trowzes hath he hent,
Not to be spied of ladies gent.
"But ho! our nephew (crieth one)
"Ho! quoth another, couzen John;"
And stoppen, and lough, and callen out-
This fely clerk full low doth lout.
They afken that, and talken this,
"Lo here is cox, and here is Mifs."
But as he gloz'd with fpeeches foote,
The ducke fore tickleth his erfe roote:
Fore-piece and buttons all to-brest,
Forth thruft a white neck and red creft.
Te-he, cry'd ladies; clerke nought spake;
Miss star'd; and gray ducke crieth quaake.
"O moder, moder," (quoth the daughter)
"Be thilke fame thing maids longen a❜ter?
"Bette is to pine on coals and chalke,
"Then trust on mon, whofe yerde can talke."
IN ev'ry town where Thamis rolls his tide,
A narrow pass there is, with houses low;
Where ever and anon the stream is ey'd,
And many a boat soft sliding to and fro..
There oft' are heard the notes of infant-woe,
The short thick fob, loud scream, and fhriller fquall:
How can ye, mothers, vex your children fo? Some play, fome eat, fome cack against the wall, And, as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.
And on the broken pavement, here and there,
Doth many a ftinking fprat and herring lie;
A brandy and tobacco shop is near,
And hens, and dogs, and hogs are feeding by ;
And here a failor's jacket hangs to dry.
At ev'ry door are fun-burnt matrons feen,
Mending old nets to catch the fealy fry;
Now finging fhrill, and fcolding oft between ; Scolds anfwer foul-mouth'd fcolds; bad neighbourhood, I ween.
The fnappifh cur (the paffengers annoy):
Close at my heel with yelping treble flies;
The whimp'ring girl, and hoarfer-screaming boy,
Join to the yelping treble, fhrilling cries;
The fcolding quean to louder notes doth rise,
And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound;
To her full pipes the grunting hog, replies;
The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round,
And curs, girls, boys, and fcolds, in the deep bafe are
drown'd...
Hard by a fty, beneath a roof of thatch,
Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days
Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch,
Cod, whiting, oyfter, mackrel, sprat, or plaice:
There learn'd she speech from tongues that never cease.
Slander befide her, like a magpie chatters,
With Envy, (fpitting cat) dread foe to peace;
Like a curs'd cur, Malice before her clatters,
And, vexing ev'ry wight, tears cloaths and all to tatters.
Her dugs were mark'd by ev'ry collier's hand,
Her mouth was black as bull-dogs at the ftall:
She scratched, bit, and fpar'd ne lace ne band;
And bitch and rogue her anfwer was to all;
Nay, e'en the parts of shame by name would call.
When'er the paffed by a lane or nook,
Would greet the man who turn'd him to the wall,
And by his hand obfcene the porter took,
Nor ever did afkance like modest virgin look.
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