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, 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, 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 Each Atom by fome other ftruck, All Turns and Motions tries; Till in a Lump together stuck, Yet to the Dean his Share allot; That, without which a Thing is not, Is, caufa fine quâ non. Thus, Pope, in vain you boaft your 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, STELLA'S Birth-Day. T March 13, 1726-7. HIS Day, whate'er the Fates decree, This Day then, let us not be told, To hear fuch mortifying Stuff. 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; WERE future Happiness and Pain; And fit their Profelytes for Vice; To be the chief of human Good, SAY, Stella, feel you no Content, Reflecting on a Life well spent? VOL. II. |