"Ah!" said Pope, "would that you could give me a fitting inscription for my fount and grotto! The only one I can remember is hackneyed, and yet it has spoilt me, I fear, for all others. "'Hujus Nympha loci, sacri custodia fontis Dormio dum blandae sentio murmur aquae; Parce meum, quisquis tanges cava marmora, somnum Rumpere; sive bibas, sive lavere, tace.'"* * Thus very inadequately translated by Pope (see his Letter to Edward Blount, Esq., descriptive of his grotto):-- "Nymph of the grot, these sacred springs I keep, And to the murmur of these waters sleep: Ah, spare my slumbers; gently tread the cave, And drink in silence, or in silence lave." It is, however, quite impossible to convey to an unlearned reader the exquisite and spirit-like beauty of the Latin verses.--ED. "We cannot hope to match it," said Bolingbroke, "though you know I value myself on these things. But tell me your news of Gay: is he growing wiser?" "Not a whit; he is forever a dupe to the /spes credula/; always talking of buying an annuity, that he may be independent, and always spending as fast as he earns, that he may appear munificent." "Poor Gay! but he is a common example of the improvidence of his tribe, while you are an exception. Yet mark, Devereux, the inconsistency of Pope's thrift and carelessness: he sends a parcel of fruit to some ladies with this note, 'Take care of the papers that wrap the apples, and return them safely; they are the only copies I have of one part of the Iliad.' Thus, you see, our economist saves his paper, and hazards his epic!" Pope, who is always flattered by an allusion to his negligence of fame, smiled slightly and answered, "What man, alas, ever profits by the lessons of his friends? How many exact rules has our good Dean of St. Patrick laid down for both of us; how angrily still does he chide us for our want of prudence and our love of good living! I intend, in answer to his charges on the latter score, though I vouch, as I well may, for our temperance, to give him the reply of the sage to the foolish courtier--" "What was that?" asked Bolingbroke. "Why, the courtier saw the sage picking out the best dishes at table. 'How,' said he with a sneer, 'are sages such epicures?'--'Do you think, Sir,' replied the wise man, reaching over the table to help himself, 'do you think, Sir, that the Creator made the good things of this world only for fools?'"