Thy reliques, Rowe, to this fair shrine we trust, And, sacred, place by Dryden’s awful dust. Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies, To which thy tomb shall gain inquiring eyes: Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest, Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest; One grateful woman to thy fame supplied What a whole thankless land to his denied. _On Maids._ Most maids resemble Eve now in their lives, Who are no sooner women, but they’re wives. _On Giles Jacob, the Poet._ BY DR. SEWELL. Parent of dulness! genuine son of night! Total eclipse! without one ray of light: Born when dull midnight bells for funerals chime, Just at the closing of the bellman’s rhyme. BY DEAN SWIFT. As Thomas was cudgelled one day by his wife, He took to his heels and ran for his life: Tom’s three dearest friends came by in the squabble, And skreened him at once from the shrew and the rabble; Then ventured to give him some wholesome advice: But Tom is a fellow of humour so nice, Too proud to take counsel, too wise to take warning, He sent to all three a challenge next morning: He fought with all three, thrice ventured his life, Then went home again, and was thrashed by his wife. _Translated from_ BUCHANAN. _Beginning_, Pauper eram juvenis, _&c._ Poor, when in youth, now worn with feeble age I’m rich; but wretched still in either stage: When wealth I could enjoy I then had none; Now plenty’s come, all power of use is gone. _On a Company of bad Dancers to good Music._ BY MR. BUDGELL. How ill the motion with the music suits! So Orpheus fiddled, and so danced the brutes. _The Lover’s Legacy._ Unhappy Strephon, dead and cold, His heart was from his bosom rent, Embalmed, and in a box of gold, To his beloved Kitty sent. Some ladies might, perhaps, have fainted, But Kitty smiled upon the bauble; A pin-cushion, said she, I wanted, Go put it on the dressing-table. _The Scotch Weather-Wife._ Scotland, thy weather’s like a modish wife; Thy winds and rains maintain perpetual strife; So termagant, a while, her thunder hies; And when she can no longer scold―she cries. _On Milton._ BY MR. DRYDEN. Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn; The first in loftiness of thought surpast; The next in majesty; in both the last. The force of nature could no farther go― To make a third she joined the former two. _Written, in the leaves of a Fan._ BY DR. ATTERBURY, A LATE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER. Flavia the least and slightest toy, Can with resistless art employ: This fan in meaner hands would prove An engine of small force in love; Yet she with graceful air and mien, Not to be told or fairly seen, Directs its flowing motion so, That it wounds more than Cupid’s bow; Gives coolness to the matchless dame, To every other breast a flame. _Written in Miss F―’s Pew at I― Church._