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"Che la natura offendi.

"Ma che? poco ama altrui, ch'il morir teme.
Piaceffe pur' al ciel, Mirtillo mio,
Che fol
pena al peccar fuffe la morte.
Santiffima honeftà, che fola fei
D'alma ben nata inviolabil nume,
Queft' amorofa voglia,

Che fvenato hò col ferro

Del tuo fanto rigor, qual' innocente
Vittima à te confacro.

E tù, Mirtillo (anima mia) perdona
A chi t'è cruda fol, dove pietofa
Effer non può: perdona à questa solo
Ne i detti, e nel fembiante

Rigida tua nemica ; ma nel core
Pietofiffima amante.

F fe pur hai defio di vendicarti,

Deh qual vendetta haver puoi tù maggiore
Del tuo proprio dolore ?
Che fe tu fe'l cor mio;
Come fe' pur, mal grado
Del cielo, e de la terras
Qualhor piangi, e sospiri,

Quelle lagrime tuo fono il mio fangue :
Quei fofpiri il mio fpirta: e quelle pene,
E quel dolor, che fenti,

Son miei, non tuoi tormenti,

Which, that it may be the more generally underflood, I have tranflated:

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Heart of

[her,

Who thou haft call'd moft cruet Amarillis;
Full well I know, the Pity thou haft afk'd,
Now thou wouldst give: Ah Lovers too unhappy!

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To be belov'd, ah! What avails it thee?
Or me, to have a Lover, fo belov❜d?
Why, cruel Fate, doft thou the Hearts divide,
Which Love has join'd? Or why, perfidious Love,
Doft thou, what Deftiny divides unite?...
Happy the Brutes! to whom kind Nature gives,
No Laws in Love, but thofe of Love alone:
Inhuman human Laws, give Death for Love.
If it be fuch a Pleafure to tranfgrefs,
And not to offend, be yet so necessary ;
O too imperfect Nature, Law t'oppose!
O Law too hard, free Nature to reftrain!..
That Love which is afraid of Death is light,
Ah! would ro Heaven that nothing else but Death,
Stood between thee and me: O facred Virtue !
Thou, who to Souls above the Vulgar rais'd,
A Power inviolable art alone,

With thy Severity, all foft Defires

I kill within; and like an harmless Victim,
To thee I confecrate: Pardon, Mirtillo,
If I am cruel, where I muft not pity:
O pardon her, who in her Looks and Words, I
Seems a fierce Enemy, but is at Heart,
A tender Lover; if thou feek Revenge,

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What greater canft thou have than thine own Grief?
For if thou art my Heart, as fuch thou art, ¡
In Oppofition, both to Heav'n and Earth,
Then if thou weep or figh, thofe Tears are thine,
They are my Blood, and all thofe Sighs my Breath;
ThofegrievousPains, thofe Griefs and Groans of thine,
Are not thy Pains, are not thy Griefs, but mine.

In this fingle Paffage Guarini has, in our Opinion, outgone all other Poets in this Subject of Complaint.

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Let no one think it strange, or foreign to Mr. Pope, that we thus largely difcourfe, and fhall difcourse comparatively, on thefe Poets with him, for he fill'd up all his Time almoft in fuch a Way; take from his Life his Perufal and Comparing the Poets, his Converfation about Literature with his Friends, receiving Letters on learned Subjects and Criticism from them, and writing again to them all, Mr. Pope's active Part of Life would not fill one Sheet of Paper. The two greatest Actions of his Life are, that he went from London when young to live at Windfor-Foreft, and in the Year 1716 moved to Twickenham, for the Remainder of his Days: See his Letter to Mr. Blount, confeffing the fame; it is dated June 22.

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Fa Regard both to publick and private Affairs, may plead a lawful Excufe in Behalf of a negligent Correfpondent, I have really a very good Title to it. I cannot fay, whether 'tis a Felicity or Unhappiness, that I am obliged at this Time to give up my whole Application to Homer; when, without that Employment, my Thoughts must turn upon what is lefs agreeable, the Violence, Madness, and Refentment, of modern (*) War-makers, which are likely to prove (to fome People at leaft) more fatal, than the fame Qualities in Achilles did to his unfortunate Countrymen.

Tho' the Change of my Scene of Life from Windfor-Foreft to the Side of the Thames be one of the grand Eras of my Days, and may be called a notable Period in fo inconfiderable a Hiftory; yet you can scarce imagine any Hero paffing from one Stage of Life to another with fo much Tranquility, fo easy

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This was written in the Year of the Affair at Preston.

a Transition, and fo laudable à Behaviour. I am become fo truly a Citizen of the World (according to Plato's Expreffion) that I look with equal Indifference on what I have loft, and on what I have gain’d. The Times and Amusements paft are not more like a Dream to me, than those which are present: I lie in a refreshing Kind of Inaction, and have one Comfort at least from Obfcurity, that the Darkness helps me to fleep the better. I now and then reflect upon the Enjoyment of my Friends, whom I fancy I remember much as feperate Spirits do us, at tender Intervals, neither interrupting their own Employments, nor altogether carelefs of ours; but, in general, conftantly wifhing us well, and hoping to have us one Day in their Company.

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To grow indifferent to the World, is to grow philofophical or religious; (whichfoever of thofe Turns we chance to take) and indeed the World is fuch a Thing, as one that thinks pretty much, muft either laugh at, or be angry with: But if we laugh at it, they fay we are proud; and if we are angry with it, they fay we are ill-natur'd. So the most politick Way is to feem always better pleas'd than one can be, greater Admirers, greater Lovers, and, in fhort, greater Fools than we really are: So fhall we live comfortably with our Families, quietly with our Neighbours, favour'd by our Mafters, and happy with our Miftreffes. I have filled my Paper, and fo adieu.

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So that all Readers will be disappointed, who look into the Life of Mr. Pope, expecting to find any thing else but a Gentleman, a Scholar, and a Poet. He filled no Office or Place, was involv'd in no LawSuits, was no Traveller, mov'd but little from one Place to another, never married and confined his

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Converfation within the Circle of his Friends; in fhort, his Life was wholly a State of Inaction, and spent in Converfation, Study, and Books: Upon this Subject, and we hope you will believe what he himself fays, he writes (eight Years before the forementioned Letter) to Henry Cromwell, Efq; April 27, 1708.

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Have nothing to fay to you in this Letter; was refolv❜d to write to you to tell you fo. Why fhould not I content myfelf with fo many great Examples, of deep Divines, profound Cafuifts, grave Philofophers; who have written not Letters only, but whole Tomes and voluminous Treatises about Nothing? Why should a Fellow, like me, who all his Life does nothing, be asham'd to write nothing? and that to one who has nothing to do but to read it? But perhaps you'll fay, the whole World has fomething to do, fomething to talk of, fomething to with for, fomething to be employ'd about: But, pray, Sir, caft up the Account, put all these Somethings together, and what is the Sum Total but just Nothing? I have no more to fay, but to defire you to give my Service (that is nothing) to your Friends, and to believe that I am nothing more than, Dear Sir, &c.

This Humour rather grew on him than abated, and he often faid, His Time was employ'd in multiplying of Nothings. It was his taking fo much Leifure that gave him an Opportunity to honour our Language, and oblige the World with fo many fine Pieces, he never feems to wish to have been in the bufy Part of the World, and never but once feem'd to repent his having liv'd fingle, that is in a Letter

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