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skies ;

(Bcasts, urg'd by us, their fellow beasts pursue, Not half fo swiftly the fierce eagle moves,
And learn of man cach other to undo) [roves, When thro' the clouds he drives the treinbling
With laught'ring guns th’unwcaried fowler doves,
When frosts have whiten'd all the naked groves, As from the God the flew with furious pace,
Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o’erthade, Or as the God, more furious, urg'd the chiacc.
And lonely woodcocks haunt the wat’ry glade. Now fainting, kinking, pale, the nymph appears;
He lifts the cube, and levels with his eye; Now close behind, his founding steps the hears ;
Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky: And now his thadow reach'd her as she run,
Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, His shadow lengthen’d by the setting fun;
The clam'rous lapivings feel the leaden death : And now his shorter breath, with fultry air,
Oft, as the mounting larks thcir notes prepare, Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair.
They fall, and leave their little lives in air. In vain on father Thames shc calls for aid,

In genial spring, beneath the quiv'ring shade, Nor could Diana help her injur'd maid. [vain;
Where cooling vapours breath along the mead, Faint, breathless, thus the pray'd, nor pray'd in
The patient fither takes his silent stand, “ Ah Cynthia! ah--tho’banislı'd from thy train,
Intent, his angle trembling in his hand, “ Let me, O let me, to the shades repair,
With looks unmor'd, he hopes the scaly breed, “ My native thades-there weep, and murmur
And eyes the dancing cork and bending recd. She said, and melting as in tears the lay, (there."
Our plenteous streams a various race fupply, In a soft silver stream diffolv'd away.
The bright-ey'd perch, with fins of Tyrian dye, The filver streain her virgin coldness kceps,
The filver ecl, in shining volumes rollid, For ever murinurs, and for ever wecps;
The yellow carp, in scales bedrop'd with gold, Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore,
Svift trouts, diversify'd with crimson ftains, And bathes the forest where the rang'd before.
And pykes, the eyrants of the wat’ry plains. In her chafic current oft the Goddess laves,
Now Cancer glows with Phabus' fiery car: And with cclefiial tears augments the waves.
The youth ruih eager to the fylvan war, Oft in her glais the musing thepherd spics
Sivarin o'er the lawns, the forest walks surround, The headlong mountains and the downward
Kouse the flect hart, and chcer the op’ning hound.
Th'impatient courser pants in ev'ry vcin, The wat'ry landskip of the pendant woods,
And, pawing, seems to beat the distant plain : And abfent trees that tremblc in the floods;
Hills, vales, and foods appear alrcady crossid, In the clear azure glcam the flocks are feen,
And, ere he starts, a thousand steps are lott. And floating forcits paint the waves with green;
Sec the bold youth strain up the thrcat’ning steep, Thro' the fair secne roll Now the ling'ting strcains,
Rush thro' the thickets, down the valleys Tiveep, Then foaming pour along, and rush into the
112g o'er their coursers heads with cager speed; Thames.
And carth rolls back bencath the flying steed. Thou, too, great father of the British floods!
Let old Arcadia boast her ample plain, With joyful pride survey'rt our lofty woods ;
Th’immortal huntress, and her virgin-train; Where tow'ring oaks their growing honours rear,
Nor elivy, Windsor! sincc thy shades have seen And future navies on thy Thorcs appear,
As bright a Goddess, and as chaste a Queen; Not Neptune's self from all her streams receives
Whose care, like her's, protects the sylvan reign; A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives.
The Earth's fair light, and Empress of the main. No seas so rich, fo gay no banks appear,

Here too, 'tis sung, of old Diana stray'd, No lake fo gentle, and no spring so clcar; And Cynthus' top forsook for Windsor thade; Nor Po ro livells the fabling poet's lays, Here was the seen o'er airy wastes to rove, While led along the skies his current strays, Seek the clear spring, or haunt the pathless grove; As thine, which visits Windsor's fam'd abodes, Here, arm'd with silver bows, in early dawn, To grace the mansion of our earthly Gods: Her buskin'd virgins trac'd the dewy lawn. Nor all his stars above a lustre thow,

Above the rest a rural nymph was famid, Like the bright beauties on thy banks below; Thy otfspring, Thames ! the fair Lodona nam’d; Whcre Jove, subdu'd by mortal paifion ftill, (Lodona's fate, in long oblivion cast, Llaft.) Might change Olympus for a nobler hill. The Mufe Thall fing, and what the sings shall Happy the man whom this bright court apScarce could the Goddess from her Nymph be proves, known,

His sov'reign favours, and his country loves : But by the crescent, and the golden zone. Happy next him, who to these fhades retires, She scorn'd the praise of beauty, and the care; Whom nature charms, and whom the Muse inA belt her waist, a fillet binds her hair; A pointed quiver on her shouider sounds, Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please, And with her dart the flying deer she wounds. Successive study, exercise, and cafe. Ir chanc'd, as, eager of the chace, the maid He gathers health from herbs the forest yields, Beyond the forest's verdant limits stray'd, And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields: Pin law and lov'd; ar., burning with desire, With chemic arts exalts thc min'ral pow'rs, Perlu'd her Hight; her fight increas'd his fire. And draws the aromatic rouls of flow'rs : Not half fo fivift the trembling doe can Ay, Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high; When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid lky; O'er figurd worlds now travels with his eye ;


fpires :

Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store, Confults the dead, and lives past ages o'er : Or wand'ring thoughtful in the filent wood, Attends the duties of the wife and good, T'obferve a mean, be to himfelf a friend, To follow nature, and regard his end;

Still in thy fong fhould vanquifh'd France appear, And bleed for ever under Britain's fpear.

Let fofter strains ill-fated Henry mourn, And palms eternal flourish round his urn. Here o'er the Martyr King the marble weeps, And faft, befide him, once-fear'd Edward fleeps:

Or looks on heav'n with more than mortal eyes, Whom not th'extended Albion could contain,

Bids his free foul expatiate in the skies,
Amid her kindred stars familiar roam,
Survey the region, and confefs her home
Such was the life great Scipio once admir'd,
Thus Atticus and Trumbal thus retir'd.

Ye facred Nine! that all my foul poffefs,
Whole raptures fire me, and whofe vifions blefs,
Bear me, oh bear me to fequefter'd fcenes,
The bow'ry mazes, and furrounding greens;
To Thames's banks with fragrant breezes fill,
Or where ye Mufes fport on Cooper's Hill.
(On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths fhall grow,
While lafts the mountain, or while Thames fhall
I fcem thro' confecrated walks to rove, [flow.)
I hear foft mufic die along the grove:
Led by the found, I roam from fhade to fhade,
By god-like poets venerable made:
Here his firft lays majestic Denham fung;
There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's
Oearly loft! what tears the river shed
When the fad pomp along his banks was led!
His drooping fwans on ev'ry note expire,
And on his willows hung each Mufe's lyre.
Since Fate relentless stopp'd their heav'nly voice,
No more the forefts ring, or groves rejoice;
Who now fhall charm the fhades where Cowley

His living harp, and lofty Denham fung?
But hark! the groves rejoice, the foreft rings!
Are thefe reviv'd? or is it Granville fings?
'Tis yours, my Lord, to blefs our foft retreats,
And call the Mufes to their ancient feats;
To paint anew the flow'ry fylvan scenes,
To crown the forefts with immortal greens,
Make Windfor hills in lofty numbers rife,
And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;
To fing those honours you deserve to wear,
And add new luftre to her filver star.
Here noble Surrey felt the facred rage,
Surrey-the Granville of a former age:
Matchlefs his pen, victorious was his lance,
Bold in the lifts, and graceful in the dance:
In the fame fhades the Cupids tun'd his lyre,
To the fame notes, of love and foft defire:
Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,
Then fill'd the groves, as heav'nly Mira now.
Oh! would't thou fing what heroes Windfor

What kings first breath'd upon her winding shore,
Or raife old warriors, whofe ador'd remains
In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains!
With Edward's acts adorn the fhining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down thro' ev'ry age.
Draw monarchs chain'd, and Creffi's glorious
The lilies blazing on the regal thield: [field,
Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall,

From old Belerium to the northern main,
The grave unites; where e'en the great find reft,
And blended lie tir'oppreffor and th'oppreft!

Make facred Charles's tomb for ever known (Obfcure the place, and uninfcrib'd the stone): Oh fact accurs'd! what tears has Albion fhed! Heav'ns, what new wounds! and how her old have bled!

She faw her fons with purple deaths expire,
Her facred domes involv'd in rolling fire,
A dreadful series of inteftine wars,
Inglorious triumphs, and difhoneft fears.
At length great Anna faid, Let difcord ceafe!*
She faid, the world obey'd, and all was peace!

In that bleft moment, from his oozy bed,
Old father Thames advanc'd his rev'rend head;
His treffes dropp'd with dews, and o'er the stream
His fhining horns diffus'd a golden gleam:
Grav'd on his urn appear'd the Moon, that guides
His fwelling waters and alternate tides;
The figur'd ftreams in waves of filver roll'd,
And on her banks Augufta role in gold;
Around his throne the fea-born brothers stood,
Who fwell'd with tributary urns his flood!
First, the fam'd authors of his ancient name,
The winding Ifis and the fruitful Thame:
The Kennet fwift, for filver eels renown'd;
The Loddon flow, with verdant alders crown'd;
Cole, whofe dark streams his flow'ry iflands lave;
And chalkey Wey, that rolls a milky wave:
The blue, tranfparent Vandalis appears;
The gulphy Lee his fedgy treffes rears;
And fullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;
And filent Darent, ftain'd with Danish blood.
High in the inidft, upon his urn reclin'd
(His fea-green mantle waving with the wind)
The God appear'd he turn'd his azure eyes
Where Windfor domes and pompous turrets

Then bow'd and fpoke; the winds forget to roar, And the hush'd waves glide foftly to the fhore.

Hail, facred Peace! hail, long-expected days, That Thames's glory to the ftars thall raife! Tho' Tyber's ftreams immortal Rome behold, Tho' foaming Hermus fwells with tides of gold, From heav'n itself tho' feven-fold Nilus flows, And harvests on a hundred realms bestows; Thefe now no more fhall be the Mufe's themes, Loft in my fame, as in the fea their ftreams. Let Volga's banks with iron fquadrons shine, And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine; Let barb'rous Ganges arm a fervile train; Be mine the bleffings of a peaceful reign. No more my fons fhall dye with British bloo Red Iber's fands, or Ifter's foaming flood: Safe on my fhore, each unmolefted fwain Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain;


Where Peace defcending bids her olives fpring,
And featters bleffings from her dove-like wing.
Ev'n I more fweetly pafs my careless days,
Pleas'd in the filent fhade with empty praife;
Enough for me, that to the lift'ning fwains
Firit in thefe fields I fung the fylvan ftrains.

§ 3. Two Charuffes to the Tragedy of Brutus*. POPE



E fhades, where facred truth is fought;
Groves, where immortal Sages taught:
Where heav'nly vifions Plato fir'd,
And Epicurus lay infpir'd!

In vain your guiltless laurels ftood
Unfpotted long with human blood.

And fteel now glitters in the Mules fhades.
War, horrid war, your thoughtlefs walks invades,


Oh heav'n-born fifters! fource of art!
Who charm the fenfe or mend the heart;
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
Moral Truth and myftic Song!

To what new clime, what diftant fky,

Forfaken, friendlefs, fhall ye fly?

Say, will ye blefs the bleak Atlantic fhore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?


When Athens finks by fates unjuft, When wild Barbarians spurn her duft; Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmoft fhore Shall ccafe to blush with ftranger's gore; See Arts her favage fons controul, And Athens rifing near the pole ! Till fome new Tyrant lifts his purple hand, And civil madnefs tears them from the land.


Ye Gods! what juftice rules the ball!
Freedom and arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are flaves.
Oh curs'd effects of civil hate,

In ev'ry age, in ev'ry ftate!
Still, when the luft of tyrant pow'r fucceeds,
Some Athens perishes, fome Tully bleeds.



OH, Tyrant Love! haft thou poffeft The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast? Wildom and Wit in vain reclaim, And Arts but foften us to feel thy flame.

The thady empire fhall retain no trace

Of war or blood, but in the fylvan chace; [blown,
The trumpet fleep, while cheerful horns are
And arms employ'd on birds and beafts alone.
Behold! th'afcending villas on my fide
Project long fhadows o'er the cryftal tide.
Behold! Augufta's glitting fpires increase,
And temples rife, the beauteous works of peace.
I fee, I fee, where two fair cities bend
Their ample bow, a new Whitehall afcend!
There mighty nations fhall enquire their doom,
The world's great oracle in times to come;
There kings thall fue, and fuppliant states be seen
Once more to bend before a British queen.

Thy trees, fair Windfor! now fhall leave their

And half thy forefts rush into thy floods,
Bear Britain's thunder, and her cross display,
To the bright regions of the rifing day:
Tempt icy feas, where fcarce the waters roll,

Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole:

Or under fouthern fkies exalt their fails,
Led by new ftars, and borne by fpicy gales!
For me the balm thall bleed, and amber flow;
The coral redden, and the ruby glow,
The pearly fhell its lucid globe infold,
And Phoebus warm the rip'ning ore to gold.
The time thall come, when, free as feas or wind,
Unbounded Thames fhall flow for all mankind;
Whole nations enter with each fwelling tide,
And feas but join the regions they divide;
Earth's diftant ends our glory fhall behold,
And the new world launch forth to feck the old.
Then thips of uncouth form shall stem the tide,
And feather'd people crowd my wealthy fide,
And naked youths and painted chiefs admire
Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire!
Oh ftretch thy reign, fair Peace! from fhore to

Til Conquest ceafe, and Slav'ry be no more;
Till the freed Indians in their native groves
Reap their own fruits, and woo their fable loves;
Peru once more a race of kings behold,
And other Mexicos be roof'd with gold.
Exil'd by thee from earth to deepest hell,
In brazen bonds fhall barb'rous difcord dwell;
Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care,
And mad Ambition fhall attend her there:
There purple Vengeance bath'd in gore retires,
Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires:
There hateful Envy her own inakes thall feel,
And Perfecution mourn her broken wheel :
There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain,
And gafping Furies thirst for blood in vain.

Here ceafe thy flight, nor with unhallow'd lays
Touch the fair fame of Albion's golden days:
The thoughts of Gods let Granville's verfe recite,
And bring the fcenes of op'ning fate to light:
My humble Mufe, in unambitious ftrains,
Paints the green forests and the flow'ry plains,

* Altered from Shakespear by the Duke of Buckingham, at whofe defire thefe two Choruffes were com pofed, to fupply as many wanting in his play. They were fet, many years afterwards, by the famous Bononcini, and performed at Buckingham-houfe.

Sound fleep by night; study and cafe,
Together mix'd; fweet recreation!
And innocence, which moft does please
With meditation."

Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

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The Dying Chriftian to his Soul. POPE.

VITAL fpark of heav'nly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the blifs of dying!
Ceafe, fond Nature, ceafe thy ftrife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whifper; angels fay,
Sifter Spirit come away!
What is this abforbs me quite?
Steals my fenfes, fhuts my fight,
Drowns my fpirits, draws my breath
Tell me, my Soul, can this be Death?
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears
With founds feraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?

§ 6. An Efay on Criticifm. POPE. 'TIS hard to fay, if greater want of skill

Appear in writing, or in judging ill;
But, of the two, lefs dang'rous is th'offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our fenfe.
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten cenfure wrong for one who writes amifs.
A fool might once himfelf alone expose;
Now one in verfe makes many more in profe.
'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go juft alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets, as true Genius is but rare,
True Tafte as feldom is the Critic's fhare -
Both inuft alike from Heav'n derive their light,
Thefe born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let fuch teach others who themfelves excel,
And cenfure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true;
But are not Critics to their judgment too?

Moft have the feeds of judgment in their mind.
Yet, if we look more clofely, we fhall find
Nature affords at leaft a glimm'ring light;
The lines,tho'touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.
But as the flightest sketch, if justly trac'd,
Is by ill colouring but the more disgrac'd,
So by falfe learning is good fente defac'd.
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And fome made cox combs Nature meant but fools.

Love, foft intruder, enters here;
But ent'ring learns to be fincere.
Marcus with blushes owns he loves;
And Brutus tenderly reproves.

Why, Virtue, doft thou blame defire,
Which Nature has impreft?
Why, Nature, dost thou foonest fire
The mild and gen'rous breast?


Love's purer flames the Gods approve ;
The Gods and Brutus bend to love;
Brutus for abfent Portia fighs,
And fterner Callius melts at Junia's eyes.
What is loose love? A tranfient guft,
Spent in a fudden storm of luft;
A vapour, fed from wild defire,
A wand'ring, self-confuming fire.
But Hymen's kinder flames unite,
And burn for ever one;
Chafte as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the Sun.


Oh, fource of ev'ry focial tye,
United with, and mutual joy!
What various joys on one attend,

As fon, as father, brother, husband, friend !
Whether his hoary fire he fpics,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his fpoufe's fonder
Or views his finiling progeny;

What tender paflions take their turns!

What home-felt raptures move!

His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With rev'rence, hope, and love.


Hence, guilty joys, diftaftes, furmifes;
Hence, falfe tears, deceits, difguifes;
Dangers, doubts, delays, furprifes;

Fires that fccrch, yet dare not fhine:
Pureft love's unwafting treasure,
Conftant faith, fair hope, long leisure;
Days of cafe, and nights of pleafure;

Sacred Hymen! these are thine.

§ 4. Ode on Solitude*. POPE.
HAPPY the man, whofe with and care
A few paternal acres bound;
Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whofe fields with bread,
Whofe flocks fupply him with attire,
Whofe trees in fummer yield him fhade,
In winter fire.

Bleft, who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and
years flide foft away;
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.

*This was a very early production of our Author, written at about twelve years old.


In fearch of wit these lofe their common sense,
And then turn Critic, in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a Rival's or an Eunuch's fpite.
Ail fools have ftill an itching to deride,
And tain would be upon the laughing fide.
If Mævius fcribble in Apollo's fpight,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.
Some have first for Wits, then Poets paft,
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain fools at laft.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics país;
As heavy mules are neither horie nor ais.
Thele half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our ile,
As half-form'd infects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinith'd things, one knows not what to call,
Their generation's fo equivocal :

To tell 'ein would a hundred tongues require,
Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.
But you who feek to give and merit fame,
And justly bear a Critic's noble name,
Be fure yourself and your own reach to know,
How far your genius, tafte, and learning go;
Launch not beyond your depth, but be difcreet,
Andinark that point where fenfe and dulnefs meet.
Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit,
And wifely curb'd proud man's pretending wit.
As on the land while here the ocean gains,
In other parts it leaves wide fandy plains;
Thus in the foul, while memory prevails,
The folid pow'r of understanding fails;
Where beans of warm imagination play,
The memory's foft figures melt away.
One fcience only will one genius fit;
So vaft is art, fo narrow human wit:
Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
But oft in thofe confin'd to fingle parts.
Like kings, we lofe the conquefts gain'd before,
By vain ambition ftill to make them more:
Each might his fervile province well command,
Would all but stoop to what they understand.
Firft follow Nature, and your judginent frame
By her just standard, which is still the fame :
Unerring Nature, ftill divinely bright,
One clear, unchang'd, and univerfal light,
Life, force, and beauty, muft to all impart ;
At once the fource, and end, and test of Art.
Art from that fund each juft fupply provides;
Works without how, and without pomp prefides:
In fome fair body thus th'informing foul
With fpirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve fuftains;
Itfelf unfeen, but in th'effects remains.
Some, to whom Heav'n in wit has been profufe,
Want as much more, to turn it to its ufe;
For wit and judgment often are at ftrife,
Tho' meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
'Tis more to guide, than spur the Mufe's fteed;
Roftrain his fury, than provoke his fpeed:
The winged courfer, like a gen'rous horse,
Shows moft true mettle when you check his courfe.
Thofe rules of old difcover'd, not devis'd,
Are Nature ftill, but Nature methodiz'd:
Nature, like liberty, is but reftrain'd

By the fame laws which first herself ordain'd.

Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites, When to reprefs, and when indulge our flights: High on Parnaffus' top her fons the show'd, And pointed out thofe arduous paths they trod; Held from afar, aloft, th'immortal prize, And urg'd the reft by equal steps to rifc. Juft precepts thus from great examples giv❜n, She drew from them what they deriv'd from The gen'rousCritic fann'd the Poet'sfire,[Heav'n. And taught the world with reafon to admire. Then Criticilin the Mute's hand-maid provid, Todrefs her charms, and make her more belov'd: But following wits from that intention ftray'd, Who could not win the miftrefs woo'd the maid; Against the poets their own arms they turn'd; Sure to hate moft the men from whom they learn'd. So modern 'Pothecaries taught the art, By Doctors bills, to play the Doctor's part; Bold in the practice of iniftaken rules, Prefcribe, apply, and call their mafters fools. Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey; Nor time nor months e'er fpoil'd fo much as they: Some drily plain, without invention's aid, Write dull receipts how poems may be made. Thefe leave the fenfe, their learning to difplay; Ard thofe explain the meaning quite away.

You then whofe judgment the right courfe would fteer,

Know well each Antient's proper character:
His Fable, Subject, scope in ev'ry page;
Religion, Country, genius of his age:
Without all thefe at once before your eyes,
Cavil you may, but never criticize.

Be Homer's works your study and delight;
Read them by day, and meditate by night:
Thence form your judgment, thence your max

ims bring,

And trace the Mufes upward to their fpring.
Still with itfelf compar'd his text peruse;
And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.

When firft young Maro in his boundlefs mind,
A work t’outlast immortal Rome design'd,
Perhaps he feem'd above the Critic's law,
And but from Nature's fountains scorn'd to draw:
But when t'examine ev'ry part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, the fame.
Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold defign; 】
And rules as ftrict his labour'd work confine,
As if the Stagirite o'erlook'd each line.
Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem;
To copy nature is to copy them.

Some beauties yet no precepts can declare; For there's a happinefs as well as care. Mufic refembles Poetry; in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a mafter-hand alone can reach. If, where the rules not far enough extend (Since rules were made but to promote their end) Some lucky Licence anfier to the full Th'intent propos'd, that Licence is a rule. Thus Pegafus, a nearer way to take, May boldly deviate from the common track. Great Wits fometimes may gloriously offend, And rife to faults true Critics dare not mend;


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