On Milton.

Græcia Mæonidem jactet sibi, Roma Maronem,
Anglia Miltonum jactat utroque parem.

Salvaggi.

Three poets in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd;
The next in majesty; in both the last.
The force of Nature could no further go;
To make a third, she join'd the former two.

Dryden.

Various parodies have appeared on this world-wide famous epigram: one by Dr. J. Drake on Sir R. Steele, Sir B. Blackmore, and Sir R. Cox ; another by Daniel O'Connell on Colonels Verner, Perceval, and Sibthorpe; a third on the Bishops of Lichfield (Butler), Durham (Maltby), and Peterborough (Marsh); a fourth on the two Lockes, one the celebrated author of an 'Essay on Human Understanding,' and the other an enormous eater. Dr. S. Johnson, too, has left us a Latin version of Dryden's well-known lines.

On Dryden.

Here let me bend, great Dryden! at thy shrine,
Thou dearest name to all the tuneful Nine !
What if some dull lines in cold order creep,
And with his theme the poet seems to sleep?
Still when his subject rises proud to view,
With equal strength the poet rises too :

With strong invention, noblest vigour fraught,
Thought still springs up and rises out of thought;
Numbers ennobling numbers in their course,
In varied sweetness flow, in varied force;
The powers of genius and of judgment join,
And the whole art of poetry is thine.

Charles Churchill.

EPIGRAMS BY DR. DONNE.(17)

I

I am unable, yonder beggar cries,

To stand, or move: if he says true, he lies.

2

Thy father all from thee, by his last will,
Gave to the poor : thou hast good title still.

3

If in his study he has so much care

To hang all strange old things, let his wife beware.

4

To the Tobacco-seller.

Niggards till dead are Niggards; so, vile weed,
Thy bounty from thy ashes doth proceed.

BY PYNE (circa 1616).

Half of your book is to an Index grown ;
You give your book contents, your readers none.

On Milton's Wife.

When Milton was blind, as all the world knows, He married a wife, whom his friend call'd a rose ; 'I am no judge of flowers, but indeed,' cried the poet, 'If she be a rose, by the thorns I may know it.'

On Charles II.

Of a tall stature and a sable hue,

Much like the son of Kish, that lofty Jew :
Ten years of need he suffer'd in exile,

And kept his father's asses all the while.

Andrew Marvell, M.P.(18)

On Jacob Tonson, the Bookseller.

With leering looks, bull-faced, and freckled fair,
With two left legs, and Judas-coloured hair,
With frousy pores that taint the ambient air.

To Nisus.(20)

Dryden. (19)

How shall we please this Age? If in a Song
We put above six lines, they count it long :
If we contract it to an Epigram,

As deep the dwarfish poetry they damn;
If we write Plays, few see above an act,

And those lewd masks, or noisy fops distract:
Let us write Satire then, and at our ease
Vex th' ill-natured fools we cannot please.

Sir C. Sedley.

EPIGRAMS BY EARL OF ROCHESTER (circa 1670).

I

On a Psalm-singing Clerk.

Sternhold and Hopkins had great qualms
When they translated David's Psalms,
To make the heart full glad :
But had it been poor David's fate,
To hear thee sing and them translate,
By Jove, 't would have drove him mad.

2

On the Coquetry of Women.

Womankind more joy discovers
Making fools than keeping lovers.

3

A Mock Epitaph written upon the Door of Charles II's

Bedroom.

Here lies our sovereign lord the King,

Whose word no man relies on;

Who never says a foolish thing,
Nor ever does a wise one.

4

Grace at a Miser's Feast.

Thanks for this miracle! It is no less

Than manna dropping in the wilderness.

Chimnies have smoked that never smoked before,
And we have dined where we shall dine no more.

On Bishop Atterbury's (21) burying the Duke of Buckingham (22) (1688).

'I have no hopes,' the Duke he says and dies;
In sure and certain hope,' the prelate cries:
Of these two noted peers, I prithee, say man,
Which is the lying knave-the priest or layman?
The Duke he stands an infidel confess'd;

'He's our dear brother,' quoth the holy priest. The Duke the knave, still brother dear,' he cries, And who can say the reverend prelate lies?

A Court Audience.

Old South, a witty churchman reckon'd,
Was preaching once to Charles the Second,
But much too serious for a court,
Who at all preaching made a sport :
He soon perceiv'd his audience nod,
Deaf to the zealous man of God.

The Doctor stopp'd; began to call,

Pray wake the Earl of Lauderdale;

My lord! why, 'tis a monstrous thing!

You snore so loud ;-you'll wake the king.'

On a Dispute between Dr. Radcliffe and Sir Godfrey
Kneller.

Sir Godfrey and Radcliffe had one common way
Into one common garden--and each had a key.
Quoth Kneller: I'll certainly stop up that door,
If ever I find it unlock'd any more.'

'Your threats,' replies Radcliffe, ' disturb not my ease,
And so you don't paint it, e’en do what you please.'
'You're smart,' rejoins Kneller, 'but say what you will,
I'll take anything from you—but potion or pill.'