_Nature and art in thee combine,_ _Thy Talents here excell:_ _All shining brass thou dost outshine,_ _To play the cheat so well._ _Who sees thee in ~Iago~’s part,_ _But thinks thee such a Rogue?_ _And is not glad with all his heart,_ _To hang so sad a Dog?_ _When ~Bays~ thou play’st, thy self thou art,_ _For that by nature fit,_ _No blockhead better suits the part,_ _Than such a coxcomb wit,_ _In ~Wronghead~ too, thy brains we see,_ _Who might do well at plough;_ _As fit for Parliament was he,_ _As for the Laurel thou._ _Bring thy protected verse from Court,_ _And try it on the Stage;_ _There it will make much better sport,_ _And set the town in rage._ _There beau’s, & wits, & cits, and smarts,_ _Where hissing’s not uncivil,_ _Will shew their parts to thy deserts,_ _And send it to the devil._ _But, ah! in vain ’gainst thee we write,_ _In vain thy verse we maul;_ _Our sharpest satyr’s thy delight,_ _For [4]~Blood!~ thou’lt stand it all_! _Thunder, ’tis said, the Laurel spares,_ _Nought but thy brow could blast it,_ _And yet! O curst provoking Stars!_ _Thy comfort is, thou ~hast~ it._ [4] Epilogue to the _Non-juror_. An ODE to Sir _Robert Walpole_, for New-Year’s-Day, 1731. I. Guardian of _Britannia’s_ glory, Life and soul of _Europe’s_ peace, Greatest name in modern story, May thy happy years increase! Brighter still thy genius shining, Richer blessings yet designing. II. Thee, the sacred muses hailing, Dulness seal’d in slumber lies; Arts and wealth thro’ thee prevailing, Faction far confounded flies; Happy prince in thee confiding: Happy people of thy guiding! III. Viewing present, past, and future, As thou keep’st eternal watch, _Janus_ say (for thou are neuter) Hast thou seen our _Walpole’s_ match? _Phœbus_ in thy radiant journey, Canst thou to a greater turn thee? IV. Lucky omens, minutes smiling, All the friendly cares appear? Every discontent beguiling, Crown the _Patriot_’s coming Year: In his person strongly guarded, Counsels blest, and works rewarded. _An Epitaph on Mrs. OLDFIELD._