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Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black,
L- and all about your ears.



You'd write as smooth again on glass,
And run on ivory so glib,
As not to stick at fool or ass,
Nor stop at flattery or fib.


Athenian Queen! and sober charms ! * I tell ye, fool! there's nothing in't : ( 'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms; In Dryden's Virgil see the print.


Come, if you'll be a quiet soul, "That dares tell neither truth nor lies, • I'll list you in the harmless roll Of those that sing of these poor eyes.”



On Charles Earl of Dorset, in the Church of

Witham in Sussex.

His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere !


DORSET, the grace of courts, the Muse's pride, Patron of arts, and judge of Nature, dy'd ; The scourge of pride, tho' sanctify'd or great, Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state; Yet soft his nature, tho’ severe his lay,

5 His anger moral, and his wisdom gay. Bless'd satirest! who touch'd the mean so true, As show'd vice had his hate and pity too. Bless'd Courtier! who could king and country please, Yet sacred keep his friendships and his ease. 10 Bless'd Peer! his great forefathers' ev'ry grace Reflecting, and reflected in his race ; Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets, shine, And patriots still, or poets, deck the line.

14 II.

On Sir William Trumball, one of the principal Se

cretaries of State to King William III. who, having resigned his Place, died in his Retirement at Easthamstead in Berkshire, 1716.

A PLEASING form, a firm yet cautious mind,
Sincere, tho' prudent, constant, yet resign'd:
Honour unchang'd, a principle profest,
Fix'd to one side, but mod'rate to the rest :
An honest courtier, yet a patriot too,

Just to his prince, and to his country true :
Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth,
A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth;
A gen'rous faith, from superstition free,
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny:

10 Such this man was, who now, from earth remov'd, At length enjoys that liberty he lov’d.


On the Hon. Simon Harcourt, only Son of the Lord

Chancellor Harcourt, at the Church of StantonHarcourt in Oxfordshire, 1720.


TO this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near; Here lies the friend most lov’d, the son most dear ; Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide, Or

gave his father grief but when he dy'd.
How vain is reason, eloquence how weak!
If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.
Oh ! let thy once-lov'd friend inscribe thy stone,
And with a father's sorrows mix his own!


On James Craggs, Esq. in Westminster-Abbey.

Regi Magnæ Britanniæ a secretis

et consiliis sanctioribus,
principis pariter ac populi amor et

deliciæ :

Vixit titulus et invidia major
Annos, heu paucos, xxxv.

Ob. Feb. XVI.


Statesman, yet friend to truth ! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear !
Who broke no promise, serv’d no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;
Ennobled by himself, by all approv’d,
Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the Muse he lov’d.

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