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Where devils to a vale retreat,

And call the laws of Wisdom, Fate;

Lament upon their hapless fall,

That Force free Virtue should enthrall?

Or shall the charms of Wealth and Power Make me pollute the Muses' bower?

LAW. As from the tripod of Apollo, Hear from my desk the words that follow: "Some, by philosophers misled,

Must honor you alive and dead;

And such as know what Greece has writ
Must taste your irony and wit;

While most that are or would be great
Must dread your pen, your person hate;
And you on Drapier's hill must lie,
And there without a mitre die."

ON BURNING A DULL POEM.

1729.

AN ass's hoof alone can hold

That poisonous juice which kills by cold.
Methought, when I this poem read,
No vessel but an ass's head

Such frigid fustian could contain;
I mean, the head without the brain.
The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts,
Went down like stupefying draughts;
I found my head began to swim,
A numbness crept through every limb.
In haste, with imprecations dire,

I threw the volume in the fire;

When, (who could think?) though cold as ice, It burnt to ashes in a trice.

How could I more enhance its fame? Though born in snow it died in flame.

THE PROGRESS OF MARRIAGE.

ÆTATIS SUE fifty-two,

A rich divine began to woo

A handsome, young, imperious girl,
Nearly related to an earl.

Her parents and her friends consent;

The couple to the temple went:

They first invite the Cyprian queen;

'Twas answer'd, "She would not be seen;"
The Graces next, and all the Muses,
Were bid in form, but sent excuses.
Juno attended at the porch,

With farthing candle for a torch;

While mistress Iris held her train,
The faded bow distilling rain.

Then Hebe came, and took her place,
But show'd no more than half her face.
Whate'er those dire forebodings meant
In mirth the wedding-day was spent;
The wedding day, you take me right,
I promise nothing for the night,
The bridegroom, dress'd to make a figure,
Assumes an artificial vigor;

A flourish'd night-cap on, to grace
His ruddy, wrinkled, smiling face;
Like the faint red upon a pippin,
Half wither'd by a winter's keeping.
And thus set out this happy pair,
The swain is rich, the nymph is fair;
But, what I gladly would forget,
The swain is old, the nymph coquette.
Both from the goal together start;
Scarce run a step before they part;
No common ligament that binds
The various textures of their minds;
Their thoughts and actions, hopes and fears,
Less corresponding than their years.
Her spouse desires his coffee soon,
She rises to her tea at noon.
While he goes out to cheapen books,
She at the glass consults her looks;
While Betty's buzzing in her ear,
Lord, what a dress these parsons wear!
So odd a choice how could she make!
Wish'd him a colonel for her sake.
Then, on her finger ends she counts
Exact to what his age amounts.
The dean, she heard her uncle say,
Is sixty, if he be a day;

His ruddy cheeks are no disguise
You see the crow's feet round his eyes.
At one she rambles to the shops,
To cheapen tea and talk with fops;
Or calls a council of her maids
And tradesmen, to compare brocades.
Her weighty morning business o'er,
Sits down to dinner just at four;
Minds nothing that is done or said,
Her evening work so fills her head.
The dean, who used to dine at one,
Is mawkish and his stomach's gone;

In threadbare gown would scarce a louse hold
Looks like the chaplain of his household;
Beholds her, from the chaplain's place,

He wonders what employs her brain,
But never asks, or asks in vain;
His mind is full of other cares,
And in the sneaking parson's airs
Computes that half a parish dues
Will hardly find his wife in shoes.
Canst thou imagine, dull divine,
'Twill gain her love to make her fine?
Hath she no other wants beside?
You raise desire as well as pride,
Enticing coxcombs to adore

And teach her to despise thee more.
If in her coach she'll condescend
To place him at the hinder end,
Her hoop is hoist above his nose,
His odious gown would soil her clothes,
And drops him at the church, to pray,
While she drives on to see the play.
He, like an orderly divine,

Comes home a quarter after nine,
And meets her hasting to the ball:
Her chairmen push him from the wall.
He enters in and walks up stairs,
And calls the family to prayers;
Then goes alone to take his rest
In bed, where he can spare her best.
At five the footmen make a din,
Her ladyship is just come in;
The masquerade began at two,
She stole away with much ado;
And shall be chid this afternoon,
For leaving company so soon:
She'll say, and she may truly say 't,

She can't abide to stay out late.

But now, though scarce a twelvemonth married,

Poor lady Jane has thrice miscarried,

The cause, alas! is quickly guess'd;

The town has whisper'd round the jest.

Think on some remedy in time,

You find his reverence past his prime,
Already dwindled to a lath:
No other way but try the bath.

For Venus, rising from the ocean,
Infused a strong prolific potion,
That mix'd with Acheloüs' spring,
The horned flood, as poets sing,
Who, with an English beauty smitten,

Ran under ground from Greece to Britain;
The genial virtue with him brought,

And gave the nymph a plenteous draught;
Then fled, and left his horn behind,

While mistress Iris held her train,
The faded bow distilling rain.
Then Hebe came, and took her place,
But show'd no more than half her face.
Whate'er those dire forebodings meant
In mirth the wedding-day was spent;
The wedding day, you take me right,
I promise nothing for the night,

The bridegroom, dress'd to make a figure,
Assumes an artificial vigor;

A flourish'd night-cap on, to grace
His ruddy, wrinkled, smiling face;
Like the faint red upon a pippin,
Half wither'd by a winter's keeping.
And thus set out this happy pair,
The swain is rich, the nymph is fair;
But, what I gladly would forget,
The swain is old, the nymph coquette.
Both from the goal together start;
Scarce run a step before they part;
No common ligament that binds

The various textures of their minds;
Their thoughts and actions, hopes and fears,
Less corresponding than their years.
Her spouse desires his coffee soon,
She rises to her tea at noon.
While he goes out to cheapen books,
She at the glass consults her looks;
While Betty's buzzing in her ear,
Lord, what a dress these parsons wear!
So odd a choice how could she make!
Wish'd him a colonel for her sake.
Then, on her finger ends she counts
Exact to what his age amounts.
The dean, she heard her uncle say,
Is sixty, if he be a day;

His ruddy cheeks are no disguise

You see the crow's feet round his eyes.
At one she rambles to the shops,
To cheapen tea and talk with fops;
Or calls a council of her maids
And tradesmen, to compare brocades.
Her weighty morning business o'er,
Sits down to dinner just at four;
Minds nothing that is done or said,
Her evening work so fills her head.
The dean, who used to dine at one,
Is mawkish and his stomach's gone;

In threadbare gown would scarce a louse hold
Looks like the chaplain of his household;
Beholds her, from the chaplain's place,

He wonders what employs her brain,
But never asks, or asks in vain;
His mind is full of other cares,
And in the sneaking parson's airs
Computes that half a parish dues
Will hardly find his wife in shoes.

Canst thou imagine, dull divine,
'Twill gain her love to make her fine?
Hath she no other wants beside?
You raise desire as well as pride,
Enticing coxcombs to adore
And teach her to despise thee more.
If in her coach she'll condescend
To place him at the hinder end,
Her hoop is hoist above his nose,
His odious gown would soil her clothes,
And drops him at the church, to pray,
While she drives on to see the play.
He, like an orderly divine,

Comes home a quarter after nine,
And meets her hasting to the ball:
Her chairmen push him from the wall.
He enters in and walks up stairs,
And calls the family to prayers;
Then goes alone to take his rest
In bed, where he can spare her best.
At five the footmen make a din,
Her ladyship is just come in;
The masquerade began at two,
She stole away with much ado;
And shall be chid this afternoon,
For leaving company so soon:

She'll say, and she may truly say 't,

She can't abide to stay out late.

But now, though scarce a twelvemonth married,

Poor lady Jane has thrice miscarried,

The cause, alas! is quickly guess'd;

The town has whisper'd round the jest.

Think on some remedy in time,

You find his reverence past his prime,
Already dwindled to a lath:
No other way but try the bath.

For Venus, rising from the ocean,
Infused a strong prolific potion,
That mix'd with Acheloüs' spring,
The horned flood, as poets sing,
Who, with an English beauty smitten,
Ran under ground from Greece to Britain;
The genial virtue with him brought,
And gave the nymph a plenteous draught;
Then fled, and left his horn behind,

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