Alexander Pope

'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill

AWAKE, my St John! leave all meaner things

Though Artemisia talks, by fits,

THE THIRD PASTORAL, Or HYLAS AND ÆGON.

I've often wish'd that I had clear,

Again? new tumults in my breast?

Women ben full of ragerie,

What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade

In these deep solitudes and awful cells,

Fr. Not twice a twelvemonth you appear in print,

P. Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigued, I said,

A soul as full of worth, as void of pride,

In these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shine,

This verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse

As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care

Such were the notes thy once-loved Poet sung,

Under this marble, or under this sill,

Heroes and kings! your distance keep:

Thy relics, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust,

Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night

'His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere!'

Yes, we have lived--one pang, and then we part!

If modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd,

Here, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest mind,

Statesman, yet friend to Truth! of soul sincere,

This modest stone, what few vain marbles can,

Of manners gentle, of affections mild;

Here rests a woman, good without pretence,

Kneller, by Heaven, and not a master, taught,

A pleasing form; a firm, yet cautious mind;

To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near;

Go! fair example of untainted youth,

When Eastern lovers feed the funeral fire,

Ye Nymphs of Solyma! begin the song:

Happy the man, whose wish and care

Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing;

Fair charmer, cease! nor make your voice's prize,

'Come, gentle Air!' the Aeolian shepherd said,

Silence! coeval with eternity;

Lest you should think that verse shall die,

Phryne had talents for mankind,

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,

P. There are (I scarce can think it, but am told)

'Quid vetat et nosmet Lucilî scripta legentes Quaerere, num illius, num

What, and how great, the virtue and the art

Well, if it be my time to quit the stage,

First in these fields I try the sylvan strains,

A shepherd's boy (he seeks no better name)

In every town, where Thamis rolls his tyde,

Vital spark of heavenly flame!

Fain would my Muse the flowery treasures sing,

Parson, these things in thy possessing

'Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos;

In that soft season, when descending showers

Few words are best; I wish you well:

How much, egregious Moore, are we

Resign'd to live, prepared to die,

Oh, be thou blest with all that Heaven can send,

Begone, ye critics, and restrain your spite,

Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought;

While Celia's tears make sorrow bright,

'Non injussa cano: te nostrae, Vare, myricae,

Thyrsis, the music of that murmuring spring