Pope felt the justice of this call, and obeyed. It was not, however, without a lingering and reverted look, as a letter of his to Jervas testifies. "I can not express how I long to renew our old intercourse and conversation; our morning conference in bed in the same room, our evening walks in the Park, our amusing voyages on the water, our philosophical suppers, our lectures, our dissertations, our gravities, our fooleries, or what not." It appears that not merely Jervas, Parnell, Garth, Rowe, and others of like respectable character, were his companions in the amusements referred to, but that, unfortunately for him, he had fallen into the company of the dissolute Earl of Warwick, Addison's son-in-law, and of Colley Cibber; who, availing themselves of his vivacity, laid a deliberate plan to engage him in an affair derogatory to his reputation. But he cut wisely these connections, and London, with a valediction to be found in his verses written in the character of a philosophical rake: "Dear, damned, distracting town, farewell Thy fools no more I'll tease," &c. *...*...*...* "To drink and droll be Rowe allowed Till the third watchman toll; Let Jervas gratis paint, and Froude Save threepence and his soul. "Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery On every learned sot; And Garth, the best good Christian he, Although he knows it not. "Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go: Farewell, unhappy Tonson! Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe, Lean Phillips and fat Johnson. "Why should I stay? both parties rage; My vixen mistress squalls; The wits in envious feuds engage, And Homer--damn him--calls." Here, then, ends Pope's town life, or that part of his life when he gave himself most up to it. We now accompany him to his new and his last residence, his beloved Twickenham, or Twitenham, as he used to write it. It seems that Pope did not purchase the freehold of the house and grounds at Twickenham, but only a long lease. He took his father and mother along with him. His father died there the year after, but his mother continued to live till 1733, when she died at the great age of ninety-three. For twenty years she had the singular satisfaction of seeing her son the first poet of his age; caressed by the greatest men of the time, courted by princes, and feared by all the base. No parents ever found a more tender and dutiful son. With him they shared in honor the ease and distinction he had acquired. They were the cherished objects of his home. Swift paid him no false compliment when he said, in condoling with him on his mother's death, "You are the most dutiful son I have ever known or heard of, which is a felicity not happening to one in a million."