EPISTLE S. ТО А FRIEND, WHO DESIRED ΜΕ ΤΟ WRITE ON THE DEATH OF KING WILLIAM. TRUST April 20, 1702. RUST me, dear George, could I in verfe but show What forrow I, what forrow all men, owe To Naffau's fate, or could I hope to raise A fong proportion'd to the monarch's praise, Could I his merits, or my grief, exprefs, And proper thoughts in proper language drefs, Unbidden fhould my pious numbers flow, The tribute of a heart o'ercharg'd with woe; But, rather than prophane his facred hearfe With languid praifes, and unhallow'd verse, My fighs I to myfelf in filence keep, And inwardly, with fecret anguish, weep. Let Halifax's Mufe (he knew him well) Let him, who fung the warrior on the Boyne, 12 16 A mourn A mournful theme: while, on raw pinions, I Let others, more ambitious, rack their brains 20 24 In polifh'd fentiments, and labour'd ftrains: To blooming Phyllis I a fong compofe, Then, while my fancy works, I write down morn, 28 And, when the whiteness of her skin I show, 32 Thus, without pains, I tinkle in the clofe, And fweeten into verfe infipid profe. The country fcraper, when he wakes his crowd, And makes the tortur'd cat-gut fqueak aloud, 36, Is often ravish'd, and in transport lost : What more, my friend, can fam'd Corelli boast, When harmony herfelf from heaven defcends, And on the artift's moving bow attends? 40 Why then, in making verfes, fhould I strain For wit, and of Apollo beg a vein ? Why cramp my dulnefs, and in torment write? 44 An artless idiot, not a study'd fool, A Withers, not a Rymer, fince I aim At nothing lefs, in writing, than a name. 48 FROM FROM HOLLAND, TO A FRIEND IN ENGLAND, IN THE YEAR 1703. FRO ROM Utrecht's filent walks, by winds, I fend The winter spent, I feel the poet's fire; The voice of war the gallant foldier wakes; The hope of Europe, and Britannia's boat: 4 8 12 16 And fhews how, ev'n in age, ambition charms. Meanwhile, my friend, the thickening shades I haunt, And finooth canals, and after rivulets pant: 20 The fmooth canals, alas, too lifeless fhow! Nor to the eye, nor to the ear, they flow. 24 Content Content to live, content to die, unknown, Lord of myself, accountable to none; 28 I fleep, I wake, I drink; I fometimes love; I read, I write; I fettle, and I rove, When, and where-e'er, I pleafe: thus, every hour All, that I will, I can; but then, I will As reafon bids; I meditate no ill; And, pleas'd with things which in my level lie, But this is all romance, a dream to you, Who fence and dance, and keep the court in view. Go on, and profper, Sir: but first from me 32 36 40 44 48 52 56 The The fplendor of a court is all a cheat; Your youth run out, your schemes of grandeur blafted, You may perhaps retire in difcontent, And curfe your patron, for no ftrange event: The patron will his innocence protest, And frown in earneft, though he finil'd in jeft. TO THE EARL OF DORSET. F 64 68 Copenhagen, March 9, 1709. ROM frozen climes, and endless tracts of fnow, From ftreams which northern winds forbid to flow, What prefent fhall the Mufe to Dorset bring, Or how, fo near the Pole, attempt to fing? The |