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When first the triumphs of your fex were fung
By those old poets, beauty was but young,
And few admir'd the native red and white,
Till poets drefs'd them up to charm the fight;
So beauty took on trust, and did engage
For fums of praises till she came to `age.
But this long-growing debt to poetry
You justly, madam, have discharg❜d to me,
When your applause and favor did infuse
New life to my condemn'd and dying muse.

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T

HE blaft of common cenfure could I fear,

Before your play my name should not appear;
For 'twill be thought, and with some color too,
I the bribe I first receiv'd from you;
pay

That mutual vouchers for our fame we stand,
And play the game into each other's hand;
And as cheap pen'orths to ourselves afford,
As Beffus and the brothers of the fword.

Such libels private men may well endure,
When states and kings themfelves are not fecure:
For ill men, conscious of their inward guilt,
Think the best actions on by-ends are built.
And yet my filence had not 'scap'd their spite;
Then, envy had not fuffer'd me to write;
For, fince I could not ignorance pretend,
Such merit I muft envy or commend.

So

many candidates there ftand for wit,
A place at court is fcarce fo hard to get:
In vain they crowd each other at the door;
For e'en reversions are all begg'd before:
Defert, how known foe'er, is long delay'd;
And then too fools and knaves are better pay'd.
Yet, as fome actions bear so great a name,

That courts themselves are just, for fear of shame;
So has the mighty merit of your play
Extorted praise, and forc'd itself away.
'Tis here as 'tis at fea; who fartheft goes,
Or dares the most, makes all the reft his foes.
Yet when fome virtue much outgrows the reft,
It shoots too fast, and high, to be expreft;
As his heroic worth ftruck envy dumb,

Who took the Dutchman, and who cut the boom.

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Such praise is yours,
That 'tis no longer feign'd, 'tis real love,
Where nature triumphs over wretched art;
We only warm the head, but you the heart.
Always you warm; and if the rifing year,
As in hot regions, brings the fun too near,
"Tis but to make your fragrant fpices blow,
Which in our cooler climates will not grow.
They only think you animate your theme
With too much fire, who are themselves all phlegm.
Prizes would be for lags of flowest pace,
Were cripples made the judges of the race.
Despise those drones, who praise, while they accuse
The too much vigor of your youthful muse.
That humble style which they your virtue make,
Is in your power; you need but ftoop and take.
Your beauteous images must be allow'd

while you the paffions move,

By all, but fome vile poets of the crowd.
But how should any fign-poft dawber know
The worth of Titian or of Angelo ?
Hard features every bungler can command;
To draw true beauty fhews a master's hand.

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EPISTLE the FIFTH.

ΤΟ ΤΗΕ

EARL of ROSCOMMON,

O N HIS

Excellent Effay on TRANSLATED Verse.

W

Hether the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian shore,

The feeds of arts and infant fcience bore, Tis fure the noble plant, tranflated first, Advanc'd its head in Grecian gardens nurft. The Grecians added verfe: their tuneful tongue Made nature firft, and nature's God their fong. Nor stopt tranflation here: for conqu’ring Rome, With Grecian spoils, brought Grecian numbers home;

Enrich'd by those Athenian mufes more,

Than all the vanquifh'd world could yield before.
"Till barb'rous nations, and more barb'rous times,
Debas'd the majesty of verse to rhimes
Those rude at first: a kind of hobbling profe,
That limp'd along, and tinkled in the close.
But Italy, reviving from the trance

Of Vandal, Goth, and Monkish ignorance,

With paufes, cadence, and well-vowell'd words,
And all the graces a good ear affords,

Made rhyme an art, and Dante's polish'd page
Reftor'd a filver, not a golden age.

Then Petrarch follow'd, and in him we fee,

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What rhyme improv'd in all its height can be:
At best a pleasing found, and fair barbarity.
The French purfu'd their steps; and Britain, laft,
In manly sweetness all the reft furpafs'd.
The wit of Greece, the gravity of Rome,
Appear exalted in the British loom:

The Muses empire is reftor'd again,

In Charles his reign, and by Rofcommon's pen.
Yet modeftly he does his work survey,
And calls a finifh'd Poem an Effay;
For all the needful rules are scatter'd here ;
Truth smoothly told, and pleasantly severe ;
So well is art disguis'd, for nature to appear.
Nor need those rules to give tranflation light:
His own example is a flame fo bright;
That he who but arrives to copy well,

Unguided will advance, unknowing will excel:
Scarce his own Horace could fuch rules ordain,'
Or his own Virgil fing a nobler strain.

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