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'Twas from the bottle King deriv'd his wit,
Drank 'till he could not talk, and then he writ.
Let no coif'd ferjeant touch the facred juice,
But leave it to the bards for better use:
Let the grave judges too the glass forbear,
Who never fing, and dance but once a year.
This truth once known, the poets take the hint,
Get drunk or mad, and then get into print:
To raise their flames indulge the mellow fit,
And lose their fenfes in the fearch of wit:
And when, with claret fir'd, they take the pen,
Swear they can write, because they drink like Ben.
Such mimic Swift or Prior to their coft,

For, in the rash attempt, the fools are loft.
When once a genius breaks thro' common rules,
He leads a herd of imitating fools.

If Pope, the prince of poets, fick a-bed,
O'er steaming coffee bends his aching head,
The fools, in public, o'er the fragrant draught,
Incline thofe heads that never ach'd or thought;
This must provoke his mirth or his disdain,
Cure his complaint-or make him fick again.

I too, like them, the poet's path pursue,
And keep great Flaccus ever in my view;
But in a diftant view-yet what I write,
In thefe loose sheets, muft never see the light;

Epiftles

Epiftles, odes, and twenty trifles more, Things that are born, and die in half an hour. "What! you must dedicate," fays fneering Spence, "This year, fome new performance to the prince: "Tho' money is your scorn, no doubt, in time, "You hope to gain fome vacant ftall by rhyme; "Like other poets, were the truth but known, "You too admire whatever is your own."

These wife remarks my modefty confound, While the laugh rifes, and the mirth goes round; Vex'd at the jeft, yet glad to fhun a fray, I whisk into a coach, and drive away.

AN

AN EPISTLE TO MR. SPENCE,

IN IMITATION OF HORACE, EPIST. X. BOOK I.

BY THE SAME.

H

Ealth from the bard who loves the rural fport,

To the more noble bard that haunts the court:
In every other point of life we chime,
Like two foft lines when coupled into rhyme.
I praise a spacious villa to the sky,

You a close garret full five stories high;
I revel here in Nature's varied fweets,
You in the nobler fcents of London ftreets.
I left the court, and here, at eafe reclin'd,
Am happier than the king who ftay'd behind:
Twelve ftifling dishes I could scarce live o'er,
At home I dine with luxury on four.
Where would a man of judgment chuse a seat,
But in a wholesome, rural, foft retreat?
Where hills adorn the mansion they defend?
Where could he better answer Nature's end?
Here from the fea the melting breezes rife,
Unbind the fnow, and warm the wintry skies:
Here gentle gales the dog-ftar's heat allay,
And foftly breathing cool the fultry day.

How

How free from cares, from dangers and affright,
In pleafing dreams I pass the filent night!
Does not the variegated marble yield
To the gay colours of the flowery field?
Can the New-River's artificial streams,
Or the thick waters of the troubled Thames,
In many a winding rufty pipe convey'd,
Or dash'd and broken down a deep cascade,
With our clear filver ftreams in fweetnefs vie,
That in eternal rills run bubbling by ;
In dimples o'er the polish'd pebbles pass,
Glide o'er the fands, or glitter thro' the grass?
And yet in town the country prospects please,
Where ftately colonnades are flank'd with trees:
On a whole country looks the master down
With pride, where scarce five acres are his own.
Yet Nature, tho' repell'd, maintains her part,
And, in her turn, fhe triumphs over art;
The hand-maid now may prejudice our taste,
But the fair miftrefs will prevail at lat.

That man mult fmart, at length, whofe puzzled fight
Mistakes in life falfe colours for the right;

As the poor dupe is fure his lofs to rue,
Who takes a Pinchbeck guinea for a true.
The wretch, whofe frantic pride kind fortune crowns,
Grows twice as abject when the goddess frowns;
As he, who rifes when his head turns round,
Muft tumble twice as heavy to the ground.

Then

--

Then love not grandeur, 'tis a fplendid curfe;
The more the love, the harder the divorce.
We live far happier by these gurgling fprings,
Than ftatesmen, courtiers, counfellors, or kings.
The ftag expell'd the courfer from the plain;
What can he do?— he begs the aid of man;
He takes the bit, and proudly bears away
His new ally, he fights, and wins the day :
But, ruin'd by fuccefs, he ftrives in vain
To quit his mafter, and the curb again.
So from the fear of want moft wretches fly,
But lofe their nobleft wealth, their liberty;
To their imperious paffions they submit,
Who mount, ride, spur, but never draw the bit.
'Tis with your fortune, Spence, as with your fhoe,
A large may wrench, a fmall one wring your toe:
Then bear your fortune in the golden mean
Not every man is born to be a Dean;

I'll bear your jeers if ever I am known
To feek two cures, when scarce I merit one.
Riches, 'tis true, fome fervice may afford,
But ofther play the tyrant o'er their lord.
Money I fcorn, but keep a little ftill,
To pay my doctor's, or my lawyer's bill.
From Encombe's foft romantic fcenes I write,
Deep funk in ease, in pleasure, and delight:
Yet, tho' her generous lord himself is here,
"Twould be one pleasure more, could you appear.

VOL. X.

H

THE

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