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The design of printing the subscribers names, is to show, that the late undertaking has the sanction of a college act; and that it is not a project carried on by five or six members, as those that oppose it would unjustly insinuate.

VERSES TO DR. GARTH.

TO DR. GARTH,

UPON THE DISPENSARY.

OH that some genius, whose poetic vein
Like Montague's could a just piece sustain,
Would search the Grecian and the Latin store,
And thence present thee with the purest ore:
In lasting numbers praise thy whole design,
And manly beauty of each nervous line:
Show how your pointed satire's sterling wit,
Does only knaves or formal blockheads hit;
Who're gravely dull, insipidly serene,
And carry all their wisdom in their mien;
Whom thus expos'd, thus stripp'd of their disguise,
None will again admire, most will despise!
Show in what noble verse Nassau you sing,
How such a poet's worthy such a king!
When Somers' charming eloquence you praise,
How loftily your tuneful voice you raise!
But my poor feeble Muse is as unfit
To praise, as imitate what you have writ.
Artists alone should venture to commend
What Dennis can't condemn, nor Dryden mend:
What must, writ with that fire and with that ease,
The beaux, the ladies, and the critics, please.

C. BOYLE.

TO MY FRIEND THE AUTHOR,
DESIRING MY OPINION OF HIS POEM.

Ask me not, friend, what I approve or blame;
Perhaps I know not why I like, or dama;
I can be pleas'd; and I dare own I am.
I read thee over with a lover's eye;
Thou hast no faults, or I no faults can spy;
Thou art all beauty, or all blindness 1.
Critics and aged beaux of fancy chaste,
Who ne'er had fire, or else whose fire is past,
Must judge by rules what they want force to taste.
I would a poet, like a mistress, try,

Not by her hair, her hand, her nose, her eye;
But by some nameless power, to give me joy.
The nymph has Grafton's, Cecil's, Churchill's

charms,

If with resistless fires my soul she warms,
With balm upon her lips, and raptures in her arms.
Such is thy genius, and such art is thine,
Some secret magic works in every line;
We judge not, but we feel the power divine.
Where all is just, is beauteous, and is fair,
Distinctions vanish of peculiar air.
Lost in our pleasure, we er joy in you
Lucretius, Horace, Sheffield, Montague.

And yet 'tis thought, some critics in this town,
By rules to all, but to themselves, unknown,
Will damn thy verse, and justify their own.
Why let them damn: were it not wondrous hard
Facetious Mirmil' and the city bard,

So near ally'd in learning, wit, and skill,
Should not have leave to judge, as well as kill?
Nay, let them write; let them their forces join,
And hope the motley piece may rival thine.
Safely despise their malice, and their toil,
Which vulgar ears alone will reach, and will defile.
Be it thy generous pride to please the best,
Whose judgment, and whose friendship, is a test.
With learned Hans thy healing cares be join'd;
Search thoughtful Ratcliffe to his inmost mind;
Unite, restore your arts, and save mankind:
Whilst all the busy Mirmils of the town
Envy our health, and pine away their own.
Whene'er thou would'st a tempting Muse engage,
Judicious Walsh can best direct her rage.
To Somers and to Dorset too submit,
And let their stamp immortalise thy wit.
Consenting Phoebus bows, if they approve,
And ranks thee with the foremost bards above.
Whilst these of right the deathless laurel send,
Be it my humble business to commend
The faithful, honest man, and the well-natur'd

friend.

CHR. CODRINGTON.

TO MY FRIEND DR. GARTH,

THE AUTHOR OF THE DISPENSARY.

To praise your healing art would be in vain;
The health you give, prevents the poet's pen.
Sufficiently confirm'd is your renown,
And I but fill the chorus of the town.
That let me wave, and only now admire
The dazzling rays of your poetic fire:
Which its diffusive virtue does dispense,
In flowing verse, and elevated sense.

The town, which long has swallow'd foolish verse,

Which poetasters every where rehearse,
Will mend their judgment now, refine their taste,
And gather up th' applause they threw in waste.
The play-house shan't encourage false sublime,
Abortive thoughts, with decoration-rhyme.

The satire of vile scribblers shall appear
On none, except upon themselves, severe:
While yours contemns the gall of vulgar spite;
And when you seem to smile the most, you bite.
THO. CHELK.

'Dr. Gibbons.

TO MY FRIEND,

UPON THE DISPENSARY.

As when the people of the northern zone
Find the approach of the revolving Sun,
Pleas'd and reviv'd, they see the new-born light,
And dread no more eternity of night:

Thus we, who lately, as of summer's heat,
Have felt a dearth of poetry and wit,
Once fear'd, Apollo would return no more
From warmer climes to an ungrateful shore.
But you, the favourite of the tuneful Nine,
Have made the God in his full lustre shine;
Our night have chang'd into a glorious day;
And reach'd perfection in your first essay.
So the young eagle, that his force would try,
Faces the Sun, and towers it to the sky.

. Others proceed to art by slow degrees, Awkward at first, at length they faintly please; And still, whate'er their first efforts produce, 'Tis an abortive, or an infant Muse:

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Whilst yours, like Pallas, from the head of Jove,
Steps out full-grown, with noblest pace to move.
What ancient poets to their subjects owe,
Is here inverted, and this owes to you:
You found it little, but have made it great,
They could describe, but you alone create.

Now let your Muse rise with expanded wings,
To sing the fate of empires and of kings;
Great William's victories she'll next rehearse,
And raise a trophy of immortal verse:
Thus to your art proportion the design,
And mighty things with mighty numbers join,
A second Namur, or a future Boyne.
H. BLOUNT.

POEMS

OF

SIR SAMUEL GARTH.

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CANTO I. SPEAK, Goddess! since 'tis thou that best canst How ancient leagues to modern discord fell; [tell, And why physicians were so cautious grown Of others' lives, and lavish of their own; How by a journey to th' Elysian plain Peace triumph'd, and old Tinc return'd again. Not far from that most celebrated place, Where angry Justice shows her awful face; Where little villains must submit to fate, That great ones may enjoy the world in state; There stands a dome1, majestic to the sight, And sumptuous arches bear its oval height; A golden globe, plac'd high with artful skill, Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill: This pile was, by the pious patron's aim, Rais'd for a use as noble as its frame; Nor did the learn'd society decline The propagation of that great design; In all her mazes, Nature's face they view'd, And, as she disappear'd, their search pursued. 20 Wrapt in the shade of night the goddess lies, Yet to the learn'd unveils her dark disguise, But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes.

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Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife Of infant atoms kindling into life; How ductile matter new meanders takes, And slender trains of twisting fibres makes; And how the viscous seeks a closer tone, By just degress to harden into bone; While the more loose flow from the vital urn, And in full tides of purple streams return; How lambent flames from life's bright lamps arise, And dart in emanations through the eyes; How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours, To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers; Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim; How great their force, how delicate their frame; How the same nerves are fashion'd to sustain The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain;

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Why bilious juice a golden light puts on,
And floods of chyle in silver currents run;
How the dim speck of entity began
T'extend its recent form, and stretch to man;
To how minute an origin we owe
Young Ammon, Cæsar, and the great Nassau;
Why paler looks impetuous rage proclaim,
And why chill virgins redden into flame;
Why envy oft' transforms with wan disguise,
And why gay mirth sits smiling in the eyes;
All ice why Lucrece; or Sempronia, fire;
Why Scarsdale rages to survive desire;
When Milo's vigour at th' Olympic 's shown,
Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane;
How matter, by the vary'd shape of pores,
Or idiots frames, or solemn senators.

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Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find, How body acts upon impassive mind; How fumes of wine the thinking part can fire, Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire; Why our complexions oft our soul declare, And how the passions in the feature are; How touch and harmony arise between Corporeal figure, and a form unseen; How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil, And act at every summons of the will; With mighty truths, mysterious to descry, Which in the womb of distant causes lie.

But now no grand inquiries are descry'd, Mean faction reigns where knowledge should preside,

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