Pope Quin, who damns all churches but his own,
Complains that heresy misleads the town,
That Whitfield-Garrick does corrupt the age,
And taints the sound religion of the stage.
―Thou great infallible! forbear to roar;
Thy bulls and errors are revered no more:
Where doctrines meet with general approbation,
It is not heresy, but reformation.
_On Miss Biddy Floyd._ BY DEAN SWIFT.
When Cupid did his grandsire Jove intreat,
To form some beauty by a new receipt,
Jove sent and found, far in a country scene,
Truth, innocence, good-nature, looks serene;
From which ingredients first the dextrous boy
Picked the demure, the awkward, and the coy:
The Graces from the court did next provide
Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride;
These Venus cleansed from every spurious grain
Of nice, coquet, affected, pert, and vain:
Jove mixed up all, and his best clay employed,
Then called the happy composition, Floyd.
_On the Gravestone of a Blacksmith, buried in Chester Church-yard._
My sledge and hammer lie reclined,
My bellows too have lost their wind;
My fire’s extinct, my forge decayed,
And in the dust my vice is laid;
My coal is spent, my iron’s gone,
My nails are drove, my work is done;
My fire-dried corpse lies here at rest,
My soul, smoke like, is soaring to be blest.
_On a Monument intended to be erected for Mr. Rowe, by his Widow._
_Written before Mr. Dryden’s was set up._