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Up ftarts a palace, lo! th'obedient base Slopes at its foot, the woods its fides embrace, The filver Thames reflects its marble face. Now let fome whimfy, or that Dev'l within Which guides all those who know not what they mean,

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But give the Knight (or give his Lady) fpleen;
Away, away! take all your fcaffolds down,
For fnug's the word:my dear, we'll live in town.'
At am'rous Flavio is the ftocking thrown;
That very night he longs to lie alone.
The fool whofe wife elopes fome thrice a quarter,
For matrimonal folace dies a martyr.
Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch,
Transform themfelves fo ftrangely as the rich?
Well, but the poor--the poorhave the fame itch!
They change their weekly barber, weekly news,
Prefer a new japanner to their shoes,
Difcharge their garrets, move their beds, and run
(They know not whither) in a chaife and one;
They hire their fculler, and when once aboard,
Grow fick, and damn the climate like a lord.

You laugh, half beau half floven if I ftand,
My wig all powder, and all fnuff iny band;
You laugh, if coat and breeches ftrangely vary,
White gloves, and linen worthy Lady Mary;
But when no prelate's lawn with hair-fhirt lin'd
Is half fo incoherent as my mind,
When (each opinion with the next at ftrife,
One ebb and flow of follies all my life)
I plant, root up; I build, and then confound;
Turn round to fquare, and fquare again to round;
You never change one muscle of your face,
You think this madnefs but a common cafe,
Nor once to chanc'ry, nor to Hale apply;
Yet hang your lip, to fee a feam awry !
Careless how ill I with myself agree,
Kind to my drefs, my figure, not to me.
Is this my guide, philofopher, and friend ?
This he, who loves me, and who ought to mend?
Who ought to make me (what he can, or none)
That man divine whom wifdom calls her own;
Great without title, without fortune blefs'd;
Rich ev'n when plunder'd, honor'd, while op-
prefs'd;

Lor'd without youth, and follow'd without pow'r;
At home, tho'exil'd; free, tho' in the tow'r:
In fhort, that reas'ning, high iminortal thing;
Juft lefs than Jove, and much above a king,
Nay, half in heav'n-except (what's mighty odd)
A fit of vapours clouds this demi-god!

EPISTLE VI.

To Mr. Murrra;.

"NOT to admire, is all the art I know "To make men happy, and to keep them fo." (Plain truth, dear Murray, needs no flow'rs of So take it in the very words of Creech )[fpeech; This vault of air, this congregated ball, Self-center'd fun, and ftars that run and fall, There are, my friend! whofe philofophic eyes Look thro' and truft the Ruler with his fkies; To him commit the hour, the day, the year, And view this dreadful all without a fear.

Admire we then what earth's low entrails hold,
Arabian fhores, or Indian feas infold;

All the mad trade of fools and ilaves for gold?
Or popularity our stars and ftrings?
The mob's applaufes, or the gifts of kings?
Say with what eyes we ought at courts to gaze,
And pay the great our homage of amaze?

If weak the pleafure that from thefe can spring,
The fear to want them is as weak a thing.
Whether we dread, or whether we defire,
In either cafe, believe me, we admire;
Whether we joy or grieve, the fame the curfe,
Surpriz'd at better, or furpriz'd at worse.
Thus, good or bad, to one extreme betray
Th'unbalanc'd mind, and fnatch the man away;
For virtue's felf may too much zeal be had;
The worft of madmen is a faint run mad.
Go then, and if you can admire the state
Of beaming diamonds, and reflected plate,
Procure a tafte to double the furprise,
And gaze on Parian charms with learned eyes:
Be ftruck with bright brocade, or Tyrian dye,
Our birthday nobles fplendid livery.

If not fo pleas'd, at council-board rejoice,
To fee their judgments hang upon thy voice;
From morn to night, at fenate rolls, and hall,
Plead much, read more, dine late, or not at all.
But wherefore all this labour, all this ftrife?
For fame, for riches, for a noble wife?
Shall one whom nature, learning, birth confpir'd
To form, not to admire but be admir'd,
Sigh, while his Chloe, blind to wit and worth,
Weds the rich dulnefs of fome fon of earth?
Yet time ennobles or degrades each line;
It brighten'd Craggs's, and may darken thine :
And what is fame? The meaneft have their day;
The greateft can but blaze, and pass away.
Grac'd as thou art, with all the pow'r of words,
So known, fo honor'd, at the Houte of Lords;
Confpicuous fcene ! another yet is nigh,
(More filent far) where kings and poets lie;
Where Murray (long enough his country's pride)
Shall be no more than Tully, or than Hyde!

Rack'd with fciatics, martyr'd with the ftone,
Will any mortal let himself alone?
See Ward by batter'd beaus invited over,
And defp'rate mifery lays hold on Dover.
The cafe is eafier in the mind's disease ;
There all men may be cur'd whene'er they pleafe.
Would ye be bleft! defpife low joys, low gains;
Difdain whatever Cornbury difdains:
Be virtuous, and be happy for your pains.

But art thou one whom new opinions fway, One who believes as Tindal leads the way, Who Virtue and a church alike difowns; Thinks that but words, and this but brick and ftones ?

Fly then, on all the wings of wild defire,
Admire whate'er the maddeft can admire.
Is wealth thy paffion? Hence! from pole to pole,
Where winds can carry, or where waves can roll,
For Indian fpices, for Peruvian gold,
Prevent the greedy, or outbid the bold:
Advance thy golden mountain to the skies;
On the broad bafe of fifty thousand rife;

Add

Add one round hundred, and (if that's not fair) | Your country, chief, in arms abroad defend,

Add fifty more, and bring it to a fquare.
For, mark th'advantage, just so many score
Will gain a wife with half as many more;
Procure her beauty, make that beauty chaste,
And then fuch friends as cannot fail to laft.
A man of wealth is dubb'd a man of worth;
Venus fhall give him form, and Auftis birth.
(Believe me, many a German prince is worse,
Who, proud of pedigree, is poor of purfe)
His wealth brave Timon gloriously confounds;
Afk'd for a groat, he gives a hundred pounds;
Or if three ladies like a lucklefs play,
Takes the whole houfe upon the poet's day.
Now, in fuch exigencies not to need,
Upon my word, you must be rich indeed!
A nobly fuperfluity it craves,

Not for yourfelf, but for your fools and knaves;
Something, which for your honor they may
And which it much becomes you to forget. [cheat,
If wealth alone then make and keep us bleft,
Still, ftill be getting, never, never reft.

But if to pow'r and place your paffion lie,
If in the pomp of life confifts the joy,
Then hire a flave, or (if you will) a lord,
To do the honors, and to give the word;
Tell at your levee, as the crowds approach,
To whom to nod, whom take into your coach;
Whom honor with your hand: to make remarks
Who rules in Cornwall, or who rules in Berks:
This may be troublesome, is near the chair;
That makes three members, this can choofe a
" may'r.'

Inftructed thus, you bow, embrace, proteft,
Adopt him fon, or coufin, at the leaft;
Then turn about, and laugh at your own jest.
Or, if your life be one continu'd treat;
If to live well means nothing but to eat;
Up, up! cries Gluttony, 'tis break of day ;
Go drive the deer, and drag the finny prey;
With hounds and horns go hunt an appetite-
So Ruffel did, but could not eat at night;
Caird Happy Dog! the beggar at his door;
And envy'd thirft and hunger to the poor!

Or fhall we ev'ry decency confound,
Thro' taverns, ftews, andbagnios take our round;
Go dine with Chartres, in each vice outdo
K-l's lewd cargo, or Ty-y's crew;
From Latian Syrens, French Circæan feafts,
Return'd well travell'd, and transform'd to beafts;
Or for a titled punk, or foreign flame,
Renounce our country, and degrade our name?
If, after all, we muft with Wilmot own,
The cordial drop of life is love alone;
And Swift cry wifely, " Vive la Bagatelle!"
The man that loves and laughs, muft fure do well.
Adieu-if this advice appear the worst,
E'en take the counsel which I gave you first;
Or better precepts if you can impart,
Why do, I'll follow them with all

my

EPISTLE I. BOOK II.

To Auguftus.

heart.

WHILE you, great patronof mankind! fuftain The balanc'd world, and open all the main ;

At home with morals, arts and laws amend:
How fhall the mufe, from fuch a monarch, ftcal
An hour, and not defraud the public weal?
Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame,
And virtuous Alfred, a more facred name,
After a life of gen'rous toils endur'd,
The Gaul fubdu'd, or property fecur'd,
Ambition humbl'd, mighty cities ftorm'd,
Or laws cftablifh'd and the world reform'd,
Clos'd their long glories with a figh, to find
Th'unwilling gratitude of bafe mankind!
All human virtue, to its lateft breath,
Finds envy never conquer'd but by death.
The great Alcides, ev'ry labour past,
Had ftill this monfter to fubdue at laft.
Sure fate of all, beneath whose rising ray
Each star of meaner merit fades away!
Opprefs'd, we feel the beam directly beat;
Thofe funs of glory pleafe not till they fet.

To thee, the world its prefent homage pays,
The harveft early, but mature the praife :
Great friend of liberty! in kings a name
Above all Greek, above ali Roman fame:
Whose word is truth, as facred and rever'd
As Heav'n's own oracles from altars heard.
Wonder of kings! like whem, to mortal eyes
None e'er has rifen, and none e'er fhall rife.

Juft in one inftance, be it yet confeft,
Your people, fir, are partial in the rest:
Foes to all living worth, except your own,
And advocates for folly dead and gone.
Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old
It is the ruft we value, not the gold.
Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learn'd by rote,
And beaftly Skelton heads of houfes
quote:
One likes no language but the Faery Queen;-
A Scot will fight for Chrift's Kirk o'the Green;"
And each truc Briton is to Ben fo civil,

He fwears the mufes met him at the Devil.

Tho' juftly Greece her eldest fons adinires,
Why fhould not we be wifer than our fires?
In ev'ry public virtue we excel;

We build, we paint, we fing, we dance as well;
And learned Athens to our art must stoop,
Could the behold us tumbling thro' a hoop.

If time improve our wits as well as wine,
Say at what age a poet grows divine?
Shall we, or fhall we not, account him so,
Who dy'd perhaps an hundred years ago!
End all difpute, and fix the year precife
When British bards begin t'immortalize?
"Who lafts a century can have no flaw,
"I hold that wit a claffic, good in law."
Suppofe he wants a year, will you com
pound?

And fhall we deem him ancient, right and found,
Or damn to all eternity at once,

At ninety-nine, a inodern and a dunce
"We fhall not quarrel for a year ortwo;
"But, courtesy of England, he

may

do."

Then by the rule that made the horfe-tail bare
I pluck out year by year, as hair by hair,
And melt down ancients like a heap of fnow,
While you to meafure merits, look in Stowe;,

And

And eftimating authors by the year,
Beftow a garland only on a bier.

Shakespear (whom you and ev'ry playhoufe bill
Style the divine, the matchlefs, what you will)
For gain, not glory, wing'd his roving flight,
And grew immortal in his own defpight.
Ben, old and poor, as little feem'd to heed
The life to come, in ev'ry poet's creed.
Who now reads Cowley? If he pleases yet,
His moral pleafes, not his pointed wit;
Forget his Epic, nay Pindaric art;
But ftill I love the language of his heart.

Yet furely, furely, thefe were famous men !
What boy but hears the fayings of old Ben?
In all debates where critics bear a part,
• Not one but nods, and talks of Jonfon's art,
Of Shakespear's nature, and of Cowley's wit;
How Beaumont's judgment check'd what
Fletcher writ;

How Shadwell hafty, Wycherly was flow;
But, for the paffions, Southern, fure, and Rowe.
Thefe, only thefe, fupport the crowded stage,
From eldest Heywood down to Cibber's age.'
All this may be; the people's voice is odd;
It is, and it is not, the voice of God.
To Gammer Gurton if it give the bays,
And yet deny the Careless Hufband praife,
Or fay our fathers never broke a rule;
Why then, I fay, the public is a fool.
But let them own, that greater faults than we
They had, and greater virtues, I'll agree.
Spenfer himself affects the obfolete,
And Sydney's verfe halts ill on Roman feet:
Milton's ftrong pinion now not heav'n can bound;
Now, ferpent-like, in profe he fweeps the ground;
In quibbles, angel and archangel join,
And God the Father turns a fchool-divine.
Not that I'd lop the beauties from his book,
Like flashing Bentley, with his defp'rate hook,
Or damn all Shakespear, like th’affected fool
At court, who hates whate'er he read at fchool.
But for the wits of either Charles's days,
The mob of gentlemen who wrote with cafe;
Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and a hundred more
(Like twinkling fars the mifcellanies o'er)
One fimile that folitary fhines

[page,

In the dry defert of a thousand Imes,
Or lengthen'd thought that gleams thro' many a
Has fanctify'd whole pocas for an age.
I lofe my patience, and 4 own it too,
When works are cenfur'd not as bad, but new;
While, if our elders break all reaton's laws,
Thele fools demand not pardon, but applaufe.
On Avon's bank, avhere flow'rs eternal blow,
If I but afk, if any weed can grow;
One tragic fentence if I dare deride,
Which Betterton's grave action dignify'd,
Or well-mouth'd Booth with emphasis proclaims
(Tho' but, perhaps, a mufter roll of names) ·
How will our fathers rife up in a rage,
And fwear, all fhame is loft in George's age!
You'd think no fools difgrac'd the former reign,
Did not fome grave examples yot remain,
Who fcorn a iad fhould teach his father skill,
And, having once been wrong, will be so still.

He who, to feem more deep than you or I,
Extols old bards, or Merlin's prophecy,
Miftake him not; he envies, not admires;
And, to debafe the fons, exalts the fires.
Had ancient times confpir'd to difallow
What then was new, what had been ancient now?
Or what remain'd, fo worthy to be read
By learned critics of the mighty dead?

In days of eafe, when now the weary fword
Was fheath'd, and luxury with Charles restor❜d;
In ev'ry taite of foreign courts improv'd,

All, by the king's example, liv'd and lov'd.'
Then peers grew proud in horfemanship t'excel.
Newmarket's glory rofe as Britain's fell;
The foldier breath'd the gallantries of France,
And ev'ry flow'ry courtier writ Romance.
Then marble foften'd into life, grew warm,
And yielding metal flow'd to human form:
Lely on animated canvafs ftole

The fleepy eye, that spoke the melting foul.
No wonder then, when all was love and fport,
The willing mufes were debauch'd at court:
On each enervate ftring they taught the note
To pant or tremble thro' an eunuch's throat.

But Britain, changeful as a child at play,
Now calls in princes, and now turns away.
Now Whig, now Tory, what we lov'd we hate;
Now all for pleasure, now for church and state
Now for prerogative, and now for laws;
Effects unhappy from a noble cause.

Time was, a fober Englishman would knock
His fervants up, and rife by five oclock,
Inftruct his family in ev'ry rule,
And fend his wife to church, his fon to school.
To worship like his fathers, was his care;
To teach their frugal virtues to his heir
To prove, that luxury could never hold;
And place, on good fecurity, his gold.
Now times are chang'd, and one poetic itch
Has feiz'd the court and city, poor and rich:
Sons, fires, and grandfires, all will wear the bays
Our wives read Milton, and our daughters plays;
To theatres, and to rehearfels throng;
And all our grace at table is a fong!
1, who fo oft renounce the mufes, lye,
Not's felf e'er tells more fibs than I;
When fick of mufe, our follies we deplore,
And promife our best friends to rhyme no more,
We wake next morning in a raging fit,
And call for pen and ink, to fhow our wit.

He ferv'd a 'prenticeship who fets up fhop;
Ward try'd on puppies and the poor his Drop;
Ev'n! Radcliff's doctors travel first to France,
Nor dare to practife till they've learn'd to dance.
Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile?
(Should Ripley venture, all the world would
fmile)

But thofe who cannot write, and thofe who can,
All rhyme, and fcrawl, and fcribble, to a man.

Yet, fir, reflect, the mifchief is not great;
Thefe madmen never hurt the church or ftate;
Sometimes the folly benefits mankind;
Aarely av'rice taints the tuneful mind.
Allow but his plaything of a pen,
He ne'er rebels, or plots, like other men:

Flight of cashiers, or mobs, he'll never mind;
And knows no loffes while the mufe is kind.
To cheat a friend, or ward, he leaves to Peter;
The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre;
Enjoys his garden and his book in quiet;
And then a perfect hermit in his diet.

Of little ufe the man you may fuppofe,
Who fays in verfe what others fay in profe;
Yet let me fhow, a poet's of fome weight,
And (tho' no foldier) useful to the state.
What will a child learn fooner than a fong?
What better teach a foreigner the tongue ?
What's long or fhort each accent where to place,
And fpeak in public with fome fort of grace.
I fcarce can think him fuch a worthless thing,
Unless he praife fome monfter of a king;
Or virtue, or religion turn to sport,
To please a lewd, or unbelieving court.
Unhappy Dryden!-In all Charles's days,
Rofcommon only boasts unfpotted bays;
And in our own (excufe from courtly stains)
No whiter page than Addison remains.
He, from the tafte obfcene, reclaims our youth,
And fets the paffions on the fide of truth,
Forms the foft bofom with the gentleft art,
And pours each human virtue in the heart.
Let Ireland tell, how wit upheld her cause,
Her trade fupported, and supply'd her laws;
And leave on Swift this grateful verfe engrav'd,
The rights a court attack'd, a poet sav’d.'
Behold the hand that wrought a nation's cure,
Stretch'd to relieve the idiot and the poor,
Proud vice to brand, or injur'd worth adorn,
And stretch'd the ray to ages yet unborn.
Not but there are, who merit other palms;
Hopkins and Sternbold glad the heart with
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The boys and girls whom charity maintains,
Implore your help in thefe pathetic trains:
How could devotion touch the country pews,
Unless the Gods beftow'd a proper mufe?
Verfe cheers their leifure, verfe affifts their work,
Verfe prays for peace, or fings down Pope and
Turk.

The filenc'd preacher yields to potent strain,
And feels that grace his pray'r befought in vain;
The bleffing thrills thro' all the lab'ring throng,
And heav'n is won by violence of fong.

Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labour when the end was reft, Indulg'd the day that hous'd their annual grain, With feafts and off'rings, and a thankful train: The joy their wives, their fons, and fervants fhare, Eafe of their toil, and partners of their care : The laugh, the jeft, attendants on the bowl, Smooth'd every brow, and open'd ev'ry foul : With growing years the pleafing licence grew, And taunts alternate innocently flew. But times corrupt, and nature ill-inclin'd, Produc'd the point that left the sting behind; Till friend with friend, and families at ftrife, Triumphant malice rag'd thro' private life. Who felt the wrong, or fear'd it, took th'alarm, Appeal'd to law, and justice lent her arm.

At length, by wholesome dread of statutes bound
The poets learn'd to pleafe, and not to wound :
Moft warp'd to flatt'ry's fide; but fome more nice,
Preferv'd the freedom, and forbore the vice.
Hence fatire rofe, that juft the medium hit,
And heals with morals what it hurts with wit
We conquer'd France, and felt our captive's
charms;

Her arts victorious triumph'd o'er our arms;
Britain to foft refinement lefs a foe,

Wit grew polite, and numbers learn'd to flow.
Waller was fimooth; but Dryden taught to join
The varying verfe, the full refourding line,
The long majestic march, and energy divine;
Tho' ftill fome traces of our ruftic vein
And fplayfoot verfe remain'd, and will remain.
Late, very late, correctnefs grew our care,
When the tir'd nation breath'd from civil war.
Exact Racine, and Corneille's nobie fire,
Show'd us that France had fomething to admire.
Not but the tragic fpirit was our own,
And full in Shale pear, fair in Otway fhone:
But Otway fail'd to polifh or refine,
And fluent Shakefpear fcarce effac'd a line;
Ev'n copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,
The laft and greatest art, the art to blot.
Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire
The humbler mule of comedy require.
But in known images of life, I gucfs
The labour greater, as th'indulgence lefs.
Obferve how feldom ev'n the best fucceed:
Tell me if Congreve's Fools are fools indeed?
What pert low dialogue has Farquhar writ!
How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit!
The ftage how loosely does Aftræa tread,
Who fairly puts all characters to bed!
And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws,
To make poor Pinkey eat with vaft applaufe;
But fill their purfe, our poet's work is done :
Alike to them, by pathos or by pun.

O you! whom vanity's light bark conveys
On fame's mad voyage by the wind of praife,
With what a fhifting gale your courfe you ply;
For ever funk too low, or borne too high!
Who pants for glory finds but short repofe;
A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows,
Farewell the ftage! if just as thrives the play
The filly bard grows fat, or falls away.

There ftill remains to mortify a wit, The many-headed monfter of the pit; A fenfelefs, worthlefs, and unhonor'd crowd; Who, to difturb their betters mighty proud. Clatt'ring their sticks before ten lines are spoke, Call for the farce, the Bear, or the Black Joke. What dear delight to Britons farce affords ! Ever the tafte of mobs, but now of lords! (Tafte, that eternal wanderer, which flies From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes The play ftands ftill; damn action and difcourfe Back fly the fcenes, and enter foot and horfe; Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn, Peers, heralds, bishops, ermin, gold, and lawn The champion too! and, to complete the jett, Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breaft!

With laughter, fure, Democritus had dy'd,
Had he beheld an audience gape fo wide.
Let bear or elephant be e'er fo white,
The people, fure, the people are the fight!
Ah lucklets poct! ftretch thy lungs and roar,
That bear or elephant fhall heed thee more;
While all its throats the gallery extends,
And all the thunder of the pit afcends!
Loud as the wolves, on Orcas' ftormy steep,
Howl to the roarings of the northern deep.
Such is the fhout, the long-applauding note,
At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat;
Or when from court a birth-day fuit bestow'd,
Sinks the loft actor in the tawdry load.
Both enters- -hark! the univerfal peal!
"But has he spoken?" Not a fyllable. [ftare
"What hook the stage, and made the people
Cato's long wig, flower'd gown, and lacker'd
Yet, left you think I rally more than teach, [chair!
Or praife malignly arts I cannot reach,

So well in paint and stone they judg'd of merit :
But Kings in wit may want difcerning spirit.
The Hero William, and the Martyr Charles,
One knighted Blackmore, and one penfion'd
Quarles;

Which made old Ben and furly Dennis fwear,
"No Lord's anointed, but a Ruffian Bear!"
Not with fuch majefty, fuch bold relief,
The forms auguft of King, or conqu'ring Chief,
E'er fwell'd on marble, as in verfe have fhin'd
(In polifh'd verfe) the Manners and the Mind.
Oh! could I mount on the Mæonian wing,
Your arms, your actions, your repofe to fing!
What feas you travers'd, and what fields you
fought!

"Your country'speace, how oft,howdearly bought!
How barb'rous rage fubfided at your word,
And nations wonder'd while they dropt the fword!
How, when you nodded o'er the land and deep,
Peace ftole her wing, and wrapt the world in fleep;
Till earth's extremes your meditation own,
And Afia's tyrants tremble at your throne
But Verfe, alas! your majefty difdains;
And I'm not us'd to panegyric strains :
The zcal of fools offends at any time,
But most of all, the zeal of fools in rhyme.
Befides, a fate attends on all I write,
That when I aim at praife, they fay I bite.
A vile encomium doubly ridicules:
There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools
If true, a woful likenefs; and if lies,
"Praise undeferv'd is fcandal in difguife :"
Well may he blufh, who gives it or receives;
And when I flatter, let my dirty leaves
(Like journals, odes, and fuch forgotten things
As Eufden, Phillips, Settle, writ of Kings).
Clothe fpice, line trunks, or flutt'ring in a row,
Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho.

Let me for once prefume t'inftruct the times,
To know the poet from the man of rhymes:
'Tis he who gives my breaft a thousand pains;
Can make me feel each paffion that he feigns;
In rage, compofe, with more than magic art,
With pity, and with terror tear my heart;
And fnatch me o'er the earth, or thro' the air,
To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.
But not this part of the poetic ftate
Alone, deferves the favour of the great :
Think of those authors, Sir, who would rely
More on a reader's fenfe than gazer's eye.
Or who fhall wander where the Mufes fing?
Who climb their mountain, or who tafte their
How fhall we fill a library with wit, [fpring?
When Merlin's Cave is half unfurnish'd yet?
My Liege! why wiiters little claim your thought,
I guefs; and, with their leave, will tell the fault:
We Pocts are upon a Poet's word)

Of all mankind, the creatures most abfurd :
The feafon when to come, and when to go,
To fing, or ceafe to fing, we never know;
And if we will recite nine hours in ten,
You lofe your patience just like other men.
Then too we hurt ourfelves, when to defend
A fingle verfe, we quarrel with a friend;
Repeat unafk'd; lament, the wit's too fine
For vulgar eves, and point out ev'ry line.
But mft when training with too weak a wing,
We needs will write Epiftles to the King;
And from the moment we oblige the town,
Expect a place, or penfion from the Crown:
Or dubb'd Historians by express command,
T'enroll your triumphs o'er the feas and land;
Be call'd to court to plan fome work divine,
As once for Louis, Boileau and Racine.

Yet think, great Sir! (fo many virtues shown)
Ahthink, what Poet beft may make them known?
Or chufe at leaft fome minifter of grace,
Fit to bestow the Laureat's weighty place.
Charles, to late times to be tranfmitted fair,
Affign'd his figure to Bernini's care;
And great Nafiau, to Kneller's hand decrced
To fix him graceful on the bounding steed ;.

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EPISTLE II. Book II.

DEAR col'nel, Cobham's, and your country's
You love a verfe, take fuch as I can fend. [friend!
A Frenchman comes, prefents you with his boy,
Bows and begins- This lad, Sir, is of Blois :
'Obferve his fhape how clean ! his locks how
My only fon, I'd have him fee the world: [curl'd!
His French is pure; his voice too--you shall hear.
Sir, he's your flave for twenty pounds a year.
Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with cafe,
Your barber, cook, upholst'rer, what you please:
A perfect genius at an op'ra fong -
To fay too much, might do my honour wrong.
Take him with all his virtues, on my word;
His whole ambition was to ferve a lord:

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But, Sir, to you, with what would I not part? 'Tho'faith, I fear 'twill break his mother's heart. 'Once (and but once) I caught him in a lye,

And then, unwhipp'd, he had the grace to cry.
The fault he has I fairly fhall reveal;
'(Could you o'erlook but that) it is to fteal.'
If, after this, you took the graceless lad,
Could you complain, my friend, he prov'd fo bad?
Faith, in fuch cafe, if you fhould profecute,
I think Sir Godfrey fhould decide the fuit

Whe

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