ON A LADY WHO P---ST AT THE TRAGEDY OF CATO

While maudlin Whigs deplor'd their Cato's Fate,
Still with dry Eyes the Tory Celia sate,
But while her Pride forbids her Tears to flow,
The gushing Waters find a Vent below:
Tho' secret, yet with copious Grief she mourns,
Like twenty River-Gods with all their Urns.
Let others screw their Hypocritick Face,
She shews her Grief in a sincerer Place;
There Nature reigns, and Passion void of Art,
For that Road leads directly to the Heart.



Epitaph. On John Lord Caryll
To Mr. John Moore, Author of the Celebrated Worm-Powder

Alexander Pope