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To you (th' all-envied gift of Heav'n)
Th’indulgent gods, unask'd, have giv'n
A form complete in ev'ry part,
And, to enjoy that gift, the art.


What could a tender mother's care
Wish better, to her fav’rite heir,
Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,
A stock of health, and golden show'rs,
And graceful fluency of speech,
Precepts before unknown to teach?


Amidst thy various ebbs of fear;
And gleaming hope, and black despair,
Yet let thy friend this truth impart,
A truth I tell with bleeding heart,
(In justice for your labours past)
That ev'ry day shall be your last ;


Ver. 13. To you, &c.]

" Dî tibi formam,
Dî tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi.”
Ver. 17. What could, &c.]

“Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno,
Quam sapere, et fari possit quæ sentiat, et cui
Gratia, fama, valetudo contingat abunde,

- non deficiente crumena ?" Ver. 23. Amidst, &c.]

“Inter spem, curamque, timores inter et iras." Ver. 28. That ev'ry day, &c.]

“ Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum.-
Me pinguem et nitidum bene curata cute vises,
Cum ridere voles, Epicuri de grege porcum.”

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That ev'ry hour your life renew
Is to your injur'd country due.


In spite of fears, of mercy spite,
My genius still must rail, and write.
Haste to thy Twick’nham's safe retreat,
And mingle with the grumbling great ;
There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find
The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
There (objects of our mutual hate)
We'll ridicule both church and state.


A Fragment, attributed by some to Mr. Pope, and by others to Mr. CONGREVE. It has, however, been seen in the hand-writing of the former.

What are the falling rills, the pendant shades, The morning bow'rs, the evening colonnades, But soft recesses for th' uneasy mind To sigh unheard in, to the passing wind ! So the struck deer, in some sequester'd part, Lies down to die (the arrow in his heart) There hid in shades, and wasting day by day, Inly he bleeds, and pants his soul away.


Verses left by MR. POPE, on his lying in the same

Bed which Wilmor, the celebrated Earl of Rochester, slept in, at Adderbury, then belonging to the Duke of ARGYLE, July 9th, 1739.

With no poetic ardour fir'd

I press the bed where Wilmot lay ;
That here he lov'd, or here expir’d,

Begets no numbers grave, or gay.

But in 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.

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