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She waits, or to the fcaffold or the cell,
When the last ling'ring friend has bid farewell.
E'en now the fhades thy ev'ning walk with bays,
(No hireling the, no proftitute to praise,)
È'en now, obfervant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day;
Thro' Fortune's cloud one truly great can fee,
Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he.

EPISTLE II.

To James Craggs, Efq. Secretary of State, 1720. A SOUL as full of worth as void of pride,

Which nothing feeks to fhew, or need to hide,
Which nor to guilt nor fear its caution owes,
And boasts a warmth that from no paffion flows.
A face untaught to feign; a judging eye,
That darts severe upon a rifing lie,
And strikes a blush thro' frontless flattery.
All this thou wert; and being this before,
Know kings and fortune cannot make thee more.
Then fcorn to gain a friend by fervile ways,
Nor wish to lofe a foe thefe virtues raife;
But candid, free, fincere, as you began,
Proceed-a minifter, but still a man.
Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
Afham'd of any friend, not e'en of me:
The patriot's plain but untrod path pursue;
If not, 'tis I must be afham'd of you.

EPISTLE III.

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To Mr. Jervas, with Mr. Dryden's Tranflation of
Frefnoy's Art of Painting.*

THIS verfe be thine, my Friend! nor thou refuse
This from no venal or ungrateful Mufe.
Whether thy hand strike out some free design,
Where life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line,
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mafs,
And from the canvas call the mimic face;

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Read

This Epiftle, and the two following, were written fome years before the reft, and originally printed in 1717.

Read thefe inftructive leaves, in which confpire,
Frefnoy's clofe art, and Dryden's native fire;
And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our ftudies, and fo join'd our name;
Like them to shine thro' long fucceeding age;
So just thy fkill, fo regular thy rage.

Smit with the love of fifter arts we came,
And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;
Like friendly colours found them both unite,
And each from each contract new ftrength and light.
How oft' in pleasing tasks we wear the day,
While fummer's-funs roll unperceiv'd away!
How oft' our flowly-growing works impart,
While images reflect from art to art!

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How oft' review, each finding, like a friend,
Something to blame, and something to commend!
What fatt'ring fcenes our wand'ring fancy wrought,
Rome's pompous glories rifing to our thought!
Together o'er the Alps, methinks we fly,
Fir'd with ideas of fair Italy.

With thee on Raphael's monument I mourn,
Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro's urn:
With thee repofe where Tully once was laid,
Or feek fome ruin's formidable fhade.
While Fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome a-new,

Here thy well-ftudied marbles fix our eye,

A fading frefco here demands a figh:
Each heav'nly piece unweary'd we compare,
Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air,
Carracci's ftrength, Correggio's fofter line,
Paulo's free ftroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finish'd with illuftrious toil appears
This fmall well-polish'd gem, the work of years;*
Yet ftill how faint by precept is expreft
The living image in the painter's breast ?
Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;

Frefnoy employed above 20 years in finishing his Poem.

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Thence

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Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, fupplies
An Angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes.

Mufe! at that name thy facred forrow shed,
Those tears eternal that embalm the dead;
Call round her tomb each object of defire,
Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire;
Bid her be all that cheers or softens life,
The tender fifter, daughter, friend, and wife;
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore,
Then view this marble, and be vain no more!

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Yet ftill her charms in breathing paint engage, 55
Her modeft cheek fhall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flow'r! that ev'ry feason fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Thus Churchill's race fhall other hearts furprise,
And other beauties envy Worfley's eyes;
Each pleafing Blount fhall endless fmiles bestow,
And foft Belinda's blufh for ever glow.

Oh! lafting as those colours may they shine!
Free as thy ftroke, yet faultlefs as thy line;
New graces yearly like thy works display,
Soft without weaknefs, without glaring gay;
Led by fome rule that guides, but not constrains,
And finish'd more thro' happiness than pains:
The kindred arts fhall in their praise confpire,
One dip the pencil, and one ftring the lyre.
Yet fhould the Graces all thy figures place,
And breathe an air divine on ev'ry face;
Yet fhould the Muses bid my numbers roll
Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul;
With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie,
And these be fung till Granville's Myra die :
Alas! how little from the grave we claim !
Thou but preferv'ft a face, and I a name.

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EPISTLE

EPISTLE IV.

To Mifs Blount, with the Works of Voiture, 1717.

IN

thefe gay thoughts the Loves and Graces fhine, And all the writer lives in ev'ry line;

His eafy art may happy nature seem;
Trifles themfelves are elegant in him.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,
Who without flatt'ry pleas'd the fair and great;
Still with efteem no lefs convers'd than read;
With wit well-natur'd, and with books well-bred :
His heart his miftrefs and his friend did fhare,
His time the Mufe, the witty, and the fair.
Thus wifely carelefs, innocently gay,
Cheerful he play'd the trifle life away,
Till Fate fcarce felt his gentle breath fuppreft,
As fmiling infants fport themselves to reft.
E'en rival wits did Voiture's death deplore,
And the gay mourn'd, who never mourn'd before;
The trueft hearts for Voiture heav'd with fighs;
Voiture was wept by all the brightest eyes:
The Smiles and Loves had dy'd in Voiture's death,
But that for ever in his lines they've breath.
Let the ftrict life of graver mortals be

A long, exact, and ferious comedy;
In ev'ry scene some moral let it teach,

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And, if it can, at once both please and preach :
Let mine an innocent gay farce appear,
And more diverting ftill than regular;
Have humour, wit, a native eafe and grace,
Tho' not too ftrictly bound to time and place.
Critics in wit or life are hard to please;
Few write to thofe, and none can live to these.
Too much your sex is by their forms confin'd,
Severe to all, but most to womankind:
Cultom, grown blind with age, must be your guide;
Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride;
By nature yielding, ftubborn but for fame,
Made flaves by honour, and made fools by fhame.
VOL. II.

P

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Mariage

Marriage may all those petty tyrants chase,
But fets up one, a greater, in their place:
Well might you with for change by thofe accurft;
But the laft tyrant ever proves the worst.
Still in constraint your fuff 'ring fex remains,
Or bound in formal or in real chains:

Whole years neglected for fome months ador'd,
The fawning fervant turns a haughty lord.
Ah! quit not the free innocence of life
For the dull glory of a virtuous wife;
Nor let falfe fhews nor empty titles please:
Aim not at joy, but reft content with ease.

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The gods, to curse Pamela with her pray❜rs,
Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares,
The fhining robes, rich jewels, beds of state,
And, to complete her bliss, a fool for mate.
She glares in balls, front-boxes, and the ring,
A vain, unquiet, glitt'ring, wretched thing!
Pride, pomp, and ftate, but reach her outward part;
She fighs, and is no duchefs at her heart.

But, Madam, if the Fates withstand, and you
Are deftin'd Hymen's willing victim too,
Truft not too much your now refiftless charms,
Those age or fickness, foon or late, disarms;
Good humour only teaches charms to last,
Still makes new conquefts, and maintains the past.
Love rais'd on beauty will like that decay;
Our hearts may bear its flender chain a day,
As flow'ry bands in wantonnefs are worn,
A morning's pleasure, and at ev'ning torn;
This binds in ties more eafy, yet more strong,
The willing heart, and only holds it long.

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Thus Voiture's early care * ftill fhone the fame, And Monthaufier was only chang'd in name: By this e'en now they live, e'en now they charm, Their wit ftill fparkling, and their flames still warm. Now crown'd with myrtle on th' Elyfian coaft, Amid thofe lovers joys his gentle ghost;

Mademoiselle Paulet,

Pleas'd

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