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Great 6 Rome and Venice early did impart
To thee th' examples of their wond'rous art.
Those mafters then, but feen, not understood,
With generous emulation fir'd thy 'blood:
For what in nature's dawn the child admir'd,
The youth endeavour'd," and the man acquir’d.
If yet thou hast not reach'd their high degree,
'Tis only wanting to this age, not thee.
Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine,
Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare defign
A more exalted work, and more divine.
For what a fong, or fenfelefs opera

Is to the living labour of a play;

Or what a play to Virgil's work would be,
Such is a fingle piece to history.

But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live:
Kings cannot reign, unless their fubjects give;
And they, who pay the taxes, bear the rule:
Thus thou, fometimes, art forc'd to draw a fool:
But fo his follies in thy pofture fink,

The fenfeleis idiot feems at laft to think.

Good heaven! that fots and knaves fhould be fo vain, To with their vile refemblance may remain!

And ftand recorded, at their own request,

To future days, a libel or a jeft!

Elfe fhould we fee your noble pencil trace
Our unities of action, time, and place:
A whole compos'd of parts, and those the best,
With every various character expreft:
Heroes at large, and at a nearer view;
Less, and at distance, an ignobler crew.
With all the figures in one action join,
As tending to complete the main defign.
More cannot be by mortal art expreft;
But venerable age fhall add the reft,

6 He travelled very young into Italy,

For

For time fhall with his ready pencil stand;
Retouch your figures with his ripening hand;
Mellow your colours, and imbrown the teint;
Add every grace, which time alone can grant;
To future ages shall your fame convey,
And give more beauties than he takes away.

EPISTLE the FIFTEENTH.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO

Mr.

JULIA

SECRETARY of the MUSES.

HOU common fhore of this poetic town,

THO

N,

Where all the excrements of wit are thrown,

For fonnet, fatire, bawdry, blafphemy,

Are emptied, and difburden'd all in thee:
The choleric wight untruffing all in rage
Finds thee, and lays his load upon thy page:
Thou Julian, or thou wife Vefpafian rather,
Doft from this dung thy well pickt guineas gather,
All mifchief's thine, tranfcribing thou wilt ftoop,
From lofty Middlefex to lowly Scroop.

What times are these, when in the hero's room,
Bow-bending Cupid doth with ballads come,
And little Afton offers to the bum?

Can two fuch pigmies fuch a weight fupport,
Two fuch Tom-Thumbs of fatire in a court?

}

Peor

Poor George grows old, his mufe worn out of fashion,
Hoarily he fung Ephelia's lamentation.
Lefs art thou help'd by Dryden's bed-rid age,
That drone has loft his fting upon the stage:
Refolve me, poor apoftate, this my doubt,
What hope haft thou to rub this winter out?
Know, and be thankful then, for Providence
By me hath fent thee this intelligence.

A knight there is, if thou can'ft gain his grace,
Known by the name of the hard-favour'd face,
For prowess of the pen renown'd is he,
From Don Quixote defcended lineally.
And tho' like him unfortunate he prove,
Undaunted in attempts of wit and love.
Of his unfinish'd face, what shall I fay?
But that 'twas made of Adam's own red clay,
That much much oaker was on it beftow'd,
God's image 'tis not, but fome Indian god:
Our christian earth can no resemblance bring
But ware of Portugal for fuch a thing;
Such carbuncles his fiery face confefs,

As no Hungarian water can redrefs.

A face which should he fee (but heaven was kind,
And to indulge his felf, Love made him blind.)
He durft not itir abroad for fear to meet
Curfes of teeming women in the freet:
The best could happen from this hideous fight,
Is that they should mifcarry with the fright-
Heaven guard them from the likeness of the knight.
Such is our charming Strephon's outward man,
His inward parts let thofe difclofe who can:
One while he honoureth Birtha with his flame,
And now he chants no lefs Loviia's name;
For when his paffion hath been bubbling long,
The fcum at laft boils up into a fong;
And fure no mortal creature at one time,

Was e'er

far o'ergone with love and rhime,

To his dear felf of poetry he talks,

His hands and feet are scanning as he walks;
His writhing looks his pangs of wit accufe,
The airy fymptoms of a breeding mufe,
And all to gain the great Lovifa's grace,
But never pen did pimp for such a face;
There's not a nymph in city, town, or court,
But Strephon's billet-doux has been their sport.
Still he loves on, yet ftill he's fure to mifs,
As they who wash an Ethiop's face, or his.
What fate unhappy Strephon does attend?
Never to get a mistress, nor a friend.
Strephon alike both wits and fools deteft,
'Cause he's like Efop's batt, half bird half beaft;
For fools to poetry have no pretence,
And common wit fuppofes common sense,
Not quite fo low as fool, nor quite a top,
He hangs between them both, and is a fop,
His morals like his wit are motley too,
He keeps from arrant knave with much ado.
But vanity and lying so prevail,

That one grain more of each would turn the scale:
He would be more a villain had he time,
But he's fo wholly taken up with rhyme,
That he mistakes his talent; all his care
Is to be thought a poet fine and fair.
Small-beer, and gruel, are his meat and drink,
The diet he prefcrites himself to think;
Rhyme next his heart he takes at the morn peep,
Some love-epiftles at the hour of fleep;
So betwixt elegy and ode we fee
Strephon is in a course of poetry:

This is the man ordain'd to do thee good,
The pelican to feed thee with his blood;
Thy wit, thy poet, nay thy friend, for he
Is fit to be a friend to none but thee.

Ma

Make fure of him, and of his mufe betimes,
For all his ftudy is hung round with rhimes?
Laugh at him, justle him, yet still he writes,
In rhyme he challenges, in rhyme he fights;
Charg'd with the last, and basest infamy,
His bufinefs is to think what rhymes to lye,
Which found in fury he retorts again,
Strephon's a very dragon at his pen ;

His brother murder'd, and his mother's whor'd,
His mistress loft, and yet his pen's his fword.

ELEGIES

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