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The beauties to th' original I owe;

Which when I mifs, my own defects I show:
Nor think the kindred Mufes thy difgrace:
A poet is not born in every race.
Two of a house few ages can afford;
One to perform, another to record.
Praise-worthy actions are by thee embrac'd;
And 'tis my praise, to make thy praises last.
For ev'n when death diffolves our human frame,
The foul returns to heaven from whence it came;
Earth keeps the body, verfe preferves the fame.

EPISTLE THE FOURTEENTH.

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To Sir GODFREY KNELLER, principal Painter to his Majesty.

NCE I beheld the fairest of her kind,

ONCE

And ftill the fweet idea charms my mind:
True, fhe was dumb; for nature gaz'd fo long,
Pleas'd with her work, that fhe forgot her tongue;
But, fmiling, faid, She still shall gain the prize;
I only have transferr'd it to her eyes.

Such are thy pictures, Kneller: fuch thy fkill,
That nature seems obedient to thy will;

Comes out, and meets thy pencil in the draught;

Lives there, and wants but words to speak her thought. At least thy pictures look a voice;

and we

Imagine founds, deceiv'd to that degree,
We think 'tis fomewhat more than just to fee.

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Shadows

Shadows are but privations of the light;

;

Yet, when we walk, they fhoot before the fight;
With us approach, retire, arife, and fall
Nothing themselves, and yet expreffing all.
Such are thy pieces, imitating life

So near, they almoft conquer in the ftrife;
And from their animated canvass came,
Demanding fouls, and loofen'd from the frame.
Prometheus, were he here, would caft away
His Adam, and refuse a soul to clay;
And either would thy noble work inspire,
Or think it warm enough without his fire.
But vulgar hands may vulgar likeness raise;
This is the leaft attendant on thy praise :
From hence the rudiments of art began ;
A coal, or chalk, firft imitated man :
Perhaps the fhadow, taken on a wall,
Gave outlines to the rude original;

Ere canyafs yet was ftrain'd, before the grace
Of blended colours found their use and place,
Or cypress tablets first receiv'd a face.

By flow degrees the godlike art advanc'd ;
As man grew polifh'd, picture was inhanc'd :
Greece added pofture, fhade, and perspective;
And then the mimic piece began to live.
Yet perfpective was lame, no distance true,
But all came forward in one common view:
No point of light was known, no bounds of art;
When light was there, it knew not to depart,

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But

But glaring on remoter objects play'd;
Not languifh'd, and infenfibly decay'd.

Rome rais'd not art, but barely kept alive,
And with old Greece unequally did strive:
Till Goths and Vandals, a rude northern race,
Did all the matchlefs monuments deface.
Then all the Mufes in one ruin lie,
And rhyme began t' enervate poetry.
Thus, in a stupid military state,

The pen and pencil find an equal fate.
Flat faces, fuch as would difgrace a skreen,
Such as in Bantam's embaffy were feen,
Unrais'd, unrounded, were the rude delight
Of brutal nations, only born to fight.
Long time the fifter arts, in iron fleep,
A heavy fabbath did fupinely keep:
At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rife,
Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes.

Thence rofe the Roman, and the Lombard line:
One colour'd beft, and one did beft defign.
Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part,
But Titian's painting look'd like Virgil's art.
Thy genius gives thee both; where true defign,
Poftures unforc'd, and lively colours join.

Likeness is ever there; but ftill the beft,
Like proper thoughts in lofty language dreft:
Where light, to fhades defcending, plays, not ftrives,
Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives.

Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought:
Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought.

Shake

Shakespeare, thy gift, I place before my fight:
With awe, I afk his bleffing ere I write ;
With reverence look on his majestic face;
Proud to be lefs, but of his godlike race.
His foul infpires me, while thy praise I write,
And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight:

Bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntlefs breaft
Contemn the bad, and emulate the best.

Like his, thy criticks in th' attempt are loft:
When most they rail, know then, they envy most.
In vain they fnarl aloof; a noify croud,
Like womens anger, impotent and loud.
While they their barren induftry deplore,
País on fecure, and mind the goal before.
Old as he is, my Mufe fhall march behind,
Bear off the blaft, and intercept the wind.
Our arts are fifters, though not twins in birth:
For hymns were fung in Eden's happy earth:
But oh, the painter Mufe, though last in place,
Has feiz'd the bleffing first, like Jacob's race.
Apelles' art an Alexander found;

And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound;
But Homer was with barren laurel crown'd.

Thou hadft thy Charles a while, and so had I;
But pafs we that unpleafing image by.
Rich in thyfelf, and of thyfelf divine;
All pilgrims come and offer at thy fhrine.
A graceful truth thy pencil can command;
The fair themselves go mended from thy hand.

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Likeness

Likeness appears in every lineament;

But likeness in thy work is eloquent.

Though nature there her true refemblance bears,
A nobler beauty in thy piece appears.

So warm thy work, fo glows the generous frame,
Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame.
Thou paint'ft as we defcribe, improving ftill,
When on wild nature we ingraft our skill;
But not creating beauties at our will.

But poets are confin'd in narrower space,
To speak the language of their native place :
The painter widely ftretches his command;
Thy pencil fpeaks the tongue of every land.
From hence, my friend, all climates are your own,
Nor can you forfeit, for hold of none.
All nations all immunities will give

you

To make you theirs, where'er you please to live;
And not feven cities, but the world would ftrive.
Sure fome propitious planet then did smile,
When first you were conducted to this isle :
Our genius brought you here, t'inlarge our fame;
For your good stars are every where the fame.
Thy matchlefs hand, of every region free,
Adopts our climate, not our climate thee.

Great Rome and Venice early did impart
To thee th' examples of their wondrous art.
Thofe mafters then, but feen, not understood,
With generous emulation fir'd thy blood:
For what in nature's dawn the child admir'd,
The youth endeavour'd, and the man acquir'd.

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