FOR, when in Bed we reft our weary Limbs, The Mind, unburthen'd, fports in various Whims. The bufy Head with mimick Art runs o'er The Scenes and Actions of the Day before.

THE drowsy Tyrant, by his Minions led,
To regal Rage devotes fome Patriot's Head.
With equal Terrors, not with equal Guilt,
The Murd❜rer dreams of all the Blood he spilt.

THE Soldier fmiling hears the Widows Cries, And ftabs the Son before the Mother's Eyes. With like Remorfe his Brother of the Trade, The Butcher, feels the Lamb beneath his Blade.

THE Statesman rakes the Town to find a Plot, And dreams of Forfeitures by Treafon got. Nor less Tom T-d-man of true Statesman Mold, Collects the City Filth in Search of Gold.

ORPHANS around his Bed the Lawyer fees, And takes the Plaintiff's and Defendant's Fees. His Fellow Pick-Purse, watching for a Job, Fancies his Fingers in the Cully's Fob.

THE

THE kind Phyfician grants the Husband's Prayers, Or gives Relief to long-expecting Heirs.

The fleeping Hangman ties the fatal Noose,
Nor unsuccessful waits for dead Mens Shoes.

THE grave Divine with knotty Points perplext, As if he were awake, nods o'er his Text: While the fly Mountebank attends his Trade, Harangues the Rabble, and is better paid.

THE hireling Senator of modern Days, Bedaubs the guilty Great with nauseous Praife! And Dick the Scavenger with equal Grace, Flirts from his Cart the Mud in W's Face.

Dr. Sw-to Mr. POPE, While he was writing the Dunciad.

Written in the Year 1726.

OPE has the Talent well to fpeak,

But not to reach the Ear;

His loudeft Voice is low and weak,

The Dean too deaf to hear

A while

A while they on each other look,

Then diffrent Studies chufe; The Dean fits plodding on a Book, Pope walks, and courts the Muse.

Now Backs of Letters, though defign'd
For thofe, who more will need 'em,
Are fill'd with Hints, and interlin'd,
Himself can hardly read 'em.

Each Atom by fome other ftruck,

All Turns and Motions tries;

Till in a Lump together stuck,
Behold a Poem rife!

Yet to the Dean his Share allot;
He claims it by a Canon;

That, without which a Thing is not,

Is, caufa fine quâ non.

Thus, Pope, in vain

you

boaft your
your Wit;

For, had our deaf Divine

Been for your Conversation fit,

You had not writ a Line.

Of

Of J Sherlock thus, for preaching fam'd;

The Sexton reafon'd well,

And justly half the Merit claim'd,
Because he rang the Bell.

STELLA'S Birth-Day.

T

March 13, 1726-7.

HIS Day, whate'er the Fates decree,
Shall still be kept with Joy by me:

This Day then, let us not be told,
That you are fick, and I grown old,
Nor think on our approaching Ills,
And talk of Spectacles and Pills.
To-morrow will be Time enuff

To hear fuch mortifying Stuff.
Yet, fince from Reafon may be brought
A better and more pleafing Thought,
Which can in fpite of all Decays;
Support a few remaining Days:
From not the graveft of Divines,
Accept for once fome ferious Lines,

N. B. Not the prefent Bishop of Bangor, but his Father,

who was Dean of St. Paul's; the Son being only famous for his enflaving Speech in the House of Lords.

ALTHOUGH We now can form no mere

Long Schemes of Life, as heretofore;
Yet you, while Time is running fast,
Can look with Joy on what is past.

WERE future Happiness and Pain;
A mere Contrivance of the Brain,
Ås Atheists argue, to entice,

And fit their Profelytes for Vice;
(The only Comfort they propose,
To have Companions in their Woes.)
Grant this the Case; yet fure 'tis hard,
That Virtue, ftild its own Reward,
Ánd by all Sages understood

To be the chief of human Good,
Should, acting, die, nor leave behind
Some lafting Pleasure in the Mind;
Which by Remembrance will affwage
Grief, Sicknefs, Poverty, and Age;
And strongly shoot a radiant Dart,
To fhine through Life's declining Part.

SAY, Stella, feel you no Content, Reflecting on a Life well spent?

VOL. II.