A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) , the greatest English poet of “Augustan” or Georgian period
I.
In ev’ry Town, where Thamis rolls his Tyde,
A narrow pass there is, with Houses low;
Where ever and anon, the Stream is ey’d,
And many a Boat soft sliding to and fro.
There oft are heard the notes of Infant Woe,
The short thick Sob, loud Scream, and shriller Squall:
How can ye, Mothers, vex your Children so?
Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall,
And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.
II.
And on the broken pavement, here and there,
Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie;
A brandy and tobacco shop is near,
And hens, and dogs, and hogs are feeding by;
And here a sailor’s jacket hangs to dry.
At ev’ry door are sun-burnt matrons seen,
Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry;
Now singing shrill, and scolding eft between;
Scolds answer foul-mouth’d scolds; bad neighbourhood I ween.
III.
The snappish cur, (the passengers’ annoy)
Close at my heel with yelping treble flies;
The whimp’ring girl, and hoarser-screaming boy,
Join to the yelping treble shrilling cries;
The scolding Quean to louder notes doth rise,
And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound;
To her full pipes the grunting hog replies;
The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round,
And curs, girls, boys, and scolds, in the deep bass are drown’d.
IV.
Hard by a Sty, beneath a roof of thatch,
Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days
Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch,
Cod, whiting, oyster, mackrel, sprat, or plaice:
There learn’d she speech from tongues that never cease.
Slander beside her, like a Mag-pie, chatters,
With Envy, (spitting Cat) dread foe to peace;
Like a curs’d Cur, Malice before her clatters,
And vexing ev’ry wight, tears clothes and all to tatters.
V.
Her dugs were mark’d by ev’ry Collier’s hand,
Her mouth was black as bull-dogs at the stall:
She scratch’d, bit, and spar’d ne lace ne band,
And bitch and rogue her answer was to all;
Nay, e’en the parts of shame by name would call:
Yea, when she passed by or lane or nook,
Would greet the man who turn’d him to the Wall,
And by his hand obscene the porter took,
Nor ever did askance like modest Virgin look.
VI.
Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town,
Woolwich and Wapping smelling strong of pitch;
Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,
And Twick’nam such, which fairer scenes enrich,
Grots, statues, urns, and Johnston’s Dog and Bitch,
Ne village is without, on either side,
All up the silver Thames, or all adown;
Ne Richmond’s self, from whose tall front are ey’d
Vales, spires, meandring streams, and Windsor’s tow’ry pride.

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External links
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Poems in English
- Lover’s Gifts XLVIII: I Travelled the Old Road by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts XLVII: The Road Is by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts XLIV: Where Is Heaven by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts XLIII: Dying, You Have Left Behind by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts XLII: Are You a Mere Picture by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts XL: A Message Came by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts XIX: It Is Written in the Book by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts XIII: Last Night in the Garden by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts VIII: There Is Room for You by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts V: I Would Ask For Still More by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts LXX: Take Back Your Coins by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts LVIII: Things Throng and Laugh by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts LIV: In the Beginning of Time by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts LII: Tired of Waiting by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts IV: She Is Near to My Heart by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts II: Come to My Garden Walk by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lotus by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lost Time by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lost Star by Rabindranath Tagore
- Little Of Me by Rabindranath Tagore
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Alexander Pope (1688 – 1744) was a a post-Restoration English poet and satirist. He is a poet of the (British) Augustan period and one of its greatest artistic exponents.