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So well in paint and stone they judg'd of merit :
Not with such majesty, such bold relief,
subsided at your word, And nations wonder'd while they dropp'd the sword ! How, when
nodded, o'er the land and deep, 400 Peace stole her wing, and wrapp'd the world in sleep; Till earth's extremes your
mediation own, And Asia's tyrants tremble at your throne But verse, alas ! your Majesty disdains ; And I'm not us'd to panegyric strains :
405 The, zeal of fools offends at
410 There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools.
If true, a woful likeness; and if lies,
THE SECOND EPISTLE
SECOND BOOK OF HORACE..
DEAR Col’nel, COBHAM's and your country's
—“ This lad, Sir, is of Blois : “ Observe his shape how clean ! his locks how curld!.
My only son, I'd have him see the world : 6
His French is pure ; his voice too-you shall hear. “ Sir, he's your slave, for twenty pound a year. 6 Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with ease, “ Your barber, cook, upholst'rer, what you please : “ A perfect genius at an op'ra-songTo say too much, might do my
wrong. • Take him with all his virtues, on my word ; 6 His whole ambition was to serve a lord ; “ But, Sir, to you, with what would I not part? 15 “ Tho' faith, I fear, 'twill break his mother's heart.
Ver. 1. Dear Col’nel,] Addressed to Colonel Cotterell of Rousham near Oxford, the descendant of Sir Charles Cotterell, who, at the desire of Charles the First, translated Davila into English.
VER. 4. “ This lad, Sir, is of Blois :) A town in Beauce, where the French tongue is spoken great purity;
and are you
“ Once (and but once) I caught him in a lie,
(Could you o'erlook but that), it is, to steal.” 20
If, after this, you took the graceless lad, Could you complain, my friend, he prov'd so bad? Faith, in such case, if you should prosecute, I think Sir Godfrey should decide the suit ; Who sent the thief that stole the cash away, 25 And punish'd him that put it in his way.
Consider then, and judge me in this light; I told you when I went, I could not write ; You said the same ;
discontent With laws, to which you gave your own assent ? 30 Nay worse, to ask for verse at such a time! D'ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme ?
In Anna's wars, a soldier poor and old Had dearly earn'd a little purse of gold : Tir'd with a tedious march, one luckless night, 35 He slept, poor dog! and lost it, to a doit. This put the man in such a desp’rate mind, Between revenge, and grief, and hunger join'd Against the foe, himself, and all mankind, He leap'd the trenches, scal'd a castle wall, Tore down a standard, took the fort and all.
Prodigious well :" his great commander cry'd, Gave him much praise, and some reward beside.
Next VER. 24. I think Sir Godfrey] Sir Godfrey Knefler.