John Oldmixon

had an unfortunate disposition, his fighting propensities keeping him constantly on the warpath. He published a collection of his poems in 1696, but it met with scant favour from contemporaries. He was born in 1673, and died in 1742.

I lately vow'd, but 'twas in haste

I LATELY vow'd, but 'twas in haste,
That I no more would court
The joys that seem when they are past
As dull as they are short.

I oft to hate my mistress swear,
But soon my weakness find;

I make my oaths when she's severe,
But break them when she's kind.

benry Carey

the author of Sally in our Alley, was a highly popular writer and musician, and was the author of several pieces for the stage. He died in 1743.

Love's a Riddle

THE flame of love assuages,
When once it is reveal'd;

But fiercer still it rages,
The more it is conceal'd.

Consenting makes it colder;
When met it will retreat :
Repulses make it bolder,

And dangers make it sweet.

John bugbes

was born at Marlborough in 1677, and whilst still engaged in commercial pursuits attained a considerable reputation as a poet. He also developed some slight artistic faculty. His knowledge of the science of music aided him most as a supplementary accomplishment, and several cantatas of which he was the author were set to music by Handel, Purcell, Pepusch, Galliard, etc. Not neglecting prose, he wrote An Essay on the Pleasure of being Deceived, which has the reputation of revealing considerable knowledge of human nature. He died in 1719. Pope sent a copy of Hughes's works to Swift, who said in a letter, 'He is too grave a poet for me; and I think him among the mediocrists, in prose as well as verse.' Pope replied, 'What he wanted in genius he made up as an honest man; but he was of the class you think him.'

To a beautiful Lady playing on the Organ.

WHEN famed Cecilia on the organ played,

And filled with moving sounds the tuneful frame,
Drawn by the charm, to hear the sacred maid,
From heaven, 'tis said, a listening angel came.
Thus ancient legends would our faith abuse;
In vain-for were the bold tradition true,
While your harmonious touch that charm renews,
Again the seraph would appear to you.

O happy fair! in whom with purest light

Virtue's united beams with beauty shine!

Should heavenly guests descend to bless our sight,

What form more lovely could they wear than thine?

Elijab Fenton

was born at Shelton, near Newcastle in Staffordshire, in 1683. He was sent to Cambridge, but 'doubting the legality of the government, and refusing to qualify himself for public employment by the oaths required, left the University without a degree.' In 1707 he published a volume of poems, and became acquainted with the distinguished writers of the period. Fenton, with others, successfully aided Pope in his work of translating the Odyssey. He wrote a tragedy called 'Mariamne,' which Cibber rejected, but it realised for its author nearly £1000 when produced at the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields (1723). He died in 1730. Pope and Broome seem to have entertained sincere affection for their friend, and, according to Johnson, 'whoever mentioned Fenton mentioned him

with honour.'

The Rose

SEE, Sylvia, see this new-blown rose,

The image of thy blush,

Mark how it smiles upon the bush,

And triumphs as it grows.

'Oh, pluck it not! We'll come anon,'

Thou sayest. Alas! 'twill then be gone.
Now its purple beauty's spread,

Soon it will drop and fall,

And soon it will not be at all;

No fine things draw a length of thread.
Then tell me, seems it not to say,

Come on, and crop me whilst you may?

John Gay

was born in Barnstaple in Devonshire in 1688, and, obtaining the friendship of Pope, succeeded in producing various pieces. His Fables were written in 1726. In this same year Swift visited Pope at Twickenham, and made suggestions to Gay which resulted in the latter producing The Beggars' Opera. The work attained extraordinary popularity, and to this success is traced the rise of English light opera. His most popular song was 'Sweet William's Farewell to BlackEyed Susan.' Gay died in 1732.

Go, Rose, my Chloe's Bosom Grace

Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace.

How happy should I prove,
Might I supply that envied place

With never-fading love!

There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye,

Involved in fragrance, burn and die.

Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find

More fragrant roses there,

I see thy withering head inclined

With envy and despair;

One common fate we both must prove :

You die with envy, I with love.