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I shall here present the Reader with a valuable Literary Curio fity, a Fragment of an unpublished Satire of Pope, intitled, ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND FORTY; communicated to me by the kindness of the learned and worthy Dr. Wilson, formerly fellow and librarian of Trinity College, Dublin; who fpeaks of the Fragment in the following terms:
"This Poem I tranfcribed from a rough draft in Pope's own hand. He left many blanks for fear of the Argus Eye of those who, if they cannot find, can fabricate treason; yet, spite of his precaution, it fell into the hands of his enemies. To the hieroglyphics, there are direct allufions, I think, in fome of the notes on the Dunciad. It was lent me by a grandfon of Lord Chetwynd, an intimate friend of the famous Lord Bolingbroke, who gratified his curiofity by a boxful of the rubbish and sweepings of Pope's ftudy, whofe executor he was, in conjunction with Lord Marchmont."
A POE M.
jealous now of all, What God, what mortal, fhall prevent thy fall? Turn, turn thy eyes from wicked men in place, And fee what fuccour from the Patriot Race.
his own proud dupe, thinks Monarchs things
Thro' Clouds of Paffion P's views are clear,
To purge and let thee blood, with fire and fword, Is all the help ftern S-- wou'd afford.
That those who bind and rob thee, would not kill, Good C hopes, and candidly fits still.
Of Chs W-- who fpeaks at all,
No more than of Sir Har-y or Sir P -.
Whose names once up, they thought it was not wrong
To lie in bed, but fure they lay too long.
G-r, C-m- B - t, pay thee due regards, Unless the ladies bid them mind their cards.
with wit that must
And Cd who speaks fo well and writes,
Whose wit and
equally provoke one,
Finds thee, at beft, the butt to crack his joke on.
Rife, rife, great W -- fated to appear,
Speak the loud language Princes
And treat with half the .
Tho' ftill he travels on no bad pretence,
Or thofe foul copies of thy face and tongue,
Or thy dread truncheon M.'s mighty peer?
C. that Roman in his nofe alone,
Who hears all caufes, B--, but thy own,
Or thofe proud fools whom nature, rank, and fate
Can the light packhorse, or the heavy steer,