XV.

Our monarch, there,

Rear'd high in air,

Should tempests rise, disdains to bend ;

Like British oak,

Derides the stroke;

His blooming honours far extend!

XVI.

Beneath them lies,

With lifted eyes,

Fair Albion, like an amorous maid;
While interest wings

Bold foreign Kings

To fly, like eagles, to his shade.

XVII.

At his proud foot

The sea, pour'd out,
Immortal nourishment supplies;

Thence wealth and state,

And power and fate,

Which Europe reads in GEORGE's eyes.

EPISTLE I.

ΤΟ

MR. POPE.

WHILST you at Twick'nham plan the future wood,

Or turn the volumes of the wise and good,
Our senate meets; at parties, parties bawl,
And pamphlets stun the streets, and load the stall;
So rushing tides bring things obscene to light,
Foul wrecks emerge, and dead dogs swim in sight;
The civil torrent foams, the tumult reigns,

And CODRUS' prose works up, and Lico's strains.
Lo! what from cellars rise, what rush from high,
Where speculation roosted near the sky;
Letters, Essays, Sock, Buskin, Satire, Song,
And all the Garret thunders on the throng!

O POPE! I burst; nor can, nor will refrain;
I'll write; let others, in their turn, complain:
Truce, truce, ye Vandals! my tormented ear
Less dreads a pillory than a pamphleteer;