For, when in Bed we rest our weary Limbs, The Mind, unburthen'd, sports in various Whims. The busy Head with mimick Art runs o'er The Scenes and A&ions 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 spile

.

The Soldier smiling hears the Widows Cries, And stabs the Son before the Mother's Eyes. With like Remorse 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 Treason got. Nor less Torn Tad-mon of true Statesman Mold, Collects the City Filch in Search of Gold.

ORPHANS around his Bed the Lawyer sees, 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 sleeping 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 Praise 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.

PE has the Talent well to speak,

But not to reach the Ear; His loudest Voice is low and weak, The Dean too deaf to hear

A while

À while they on each other look,

Then diffrent Studies chuse; The Dean fits plodding on a Book,

Pope walks, and courts the Muse:

Now Backs of Letters, though defign'd

For those who more will need 'em; Are filld with Hints, and interlin'd,

Himself can hardly read 'em.

Each Atom by some other struck,

All Turns and Motions tries; Till in a Lump together stuck,

Behold a Poem rise!

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

boast your Wit; For, had our deaf Divine Been for your Conversation fit,

You had not writ a Line.

Of S Sherlock thus, for preaching fam’d;

The Sexton reason'd well,
And justly half the Merit claim'd,

Because he rang the Bell.

STELLA's Birth-Day.

March 13, 1726-7.

T

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,
Ånd talk of Spectacles and Pills.
To-morrow will be Time enuff
To hear such mortifying Stuff.
Yet, fince from Reason may be brought
A better and more pleasing Thought,
Which can in spite of all Decays,
Support a few remaining Days:
From noć the gravest of Divines,
Accept for once some serious Lines,

AL

N. B. Not the present Bishop of Bangor, but his father, who was Dean of St. Paul's; the Son being only famous for his enllaving Speech in the House of Lords.

ALTHOUGH we now can form no more
Long Schemes of Life, as heretofore;
Yet you, while Time is running faft,
Can look with Joy on what is past.

Were future Happiness and Pain;
А mere Contrivance of the Brain,
As Atheifts argue, to entice,
And fit their Proselytes for Vice;
(The only Comfort they propose,
To have Companions in their Woes.)
Grant this the Case; yet sure 'tis hard,
That Virtue, ftil'd its own Reward;
And by all Sages understood
To be the chief of human Good,
Should, acting, die, nor leave behind
Some lasting Pleasure in the Mind;
Which by Remembrance will affwage"
Grief, Sickriefs, Poverty, and Age;
And strongly shoot a radiant Dart,
To shine through Life's declining Pati.

SA Ý, Stella, feel you no Content; Reflecting on a Life well spent?

Vol. II.

Yout