THE TRANSLATOR.

OZELL, at Sanger's call, invok'd his Muse, For who to sing for Sanger could refuse? His numbers such as Sanger's self might use Reviving Perrault, murd'ring Boileau, he Slander'd the ancients first, then Wycherley; Which yet not much that old bard's anger rais'd, Since those were slander'd most, whom Ozell prais'd. Nor had the gentle satire caus'd complaining, Had not sage Rowe pronounc'd it entertaining; How great must be the judgment of that writer, Who the Plain-dealer damns, and prints the Biter!

EGBERT SANGER served his apprenticeship with Jacob Tonson, and succeeded Bernard Lintot in his shop at Middle Temple Gate, Fleet-Street. Lintot printed Ozell's translation of Perrault's Characters, and Sanger his translation of Boileau's Lutrin, recommended by Mr. Rowe, Anno 1709.

THE LOOKING-GLASS.

ON MRS. PULTENEY.

WITH Scornful mien, and various toss of air, Fantastic, vain, and insolently fair,

Grandeur intoxicates her giddy brain,

She looks ambition, and she moves disdain.
Far other carriage grac'd her virgin life,
But charming G-y's lost, in P-y's wife.
Not greater arrogance in him we find,
And this conjunction swells at least her mind :
O could the sire, renown'd in glass, produce
One faithful mirror for his daughter's use!
Wherein she might her haughty errors trace,
And by reflection learn to mend her face:
The wonted sweetness to her form restore,

Be what she was, and charm mankind once more.

A FAREWELL TO LONDON

IN THE YEAR 1714.

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 Bs and rough C---, adieu!
Earl Warwick make 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 Jervase 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,
Altho' 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 Hallifax'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-11 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 other ends,

Tho' 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 sallads, 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.

These lines were added by MR. POPE after the present Conclusion of his Address to MISS MARTHA BLOUNT, on her leaving Town, &c. "As some fond Virgin," &c.

In this strange town a different course we take, Refine ourselves to spirit, for your sake.

For want of you, we spend our random wit on
The first we find with Needham, Brooks, or Briton.
Hackney'd in sin, we beat about the town,
And like sure spaniels, at first scent lie down :
Were Virtue's self in silks-faith keep away!

Or virtue's virtue scarce would last a day.

Thus, Madam, most men talk, and some men do; The rest is told you in a line or two.

Some strangely wonder you're not fond to marry-
A double jest still pleases sweet Sir Harry-
Small-pox is rife, and Gay in dreadful fear-

The good priests whisper-Where's the chevalier?
Much in your absence B-'s heart endures,
And if poor Pope is, the fault is

yours.