For far from thence is Honest Nature chas'd, Afham'd to fee her felf fo much difgrac'd,

Not fo the other, whofe fuperior Art To lifeless Colours can a living Soul impart : Bold are his Stroaks, but manag'd still with Care, For Nature always claims the better share; Colours, Proportion, Distance are combin'd

To please the Sight, and Strength to charm the .Mind..

Yet not the Best a full Perfection gain'd,
But in one Province ftill the Painter reign'd:
Water and Land a different Mafter own,
And Hiftory is always found alone:

Peculiar Hands give. Trees and Flow'rs the beft,

The Mimick Drolls below, diftinguifi'd from the reft.

Our wondrousBard, whofe comprehendingSoul Could reach All Nature,and describe Her Whole; To fingle Beauties scorn'd to be confin'd, But fhow'd the Vigor of extensive Mind. In all the nice Proportions We behold, Like Angelo correct, like Titian bold.

4

If homely Cots,or humble Shepherds Ways) Employ'd hisMuse, how calmly did they please And fink our Paffions to a rural Eafe!

Or when He fung th' Exceffes of the Great,
High Palaces, the trifling Pomp of State,
Th' ungovern'd Soul, her Reafon laid afide,
Took the fond Hint, and was debas'd to Pride.
Landskip in all its various Face He show'd,
Here winding Rivers thro' the Meadows flow'd,

Ir' un-S

And there the fruitful Trees complain'd th’un equal Load;

Here

Here Mountains rise aloft, and dare the Sky,
There dreary Caves the Face of Nature fly;
Here Night a pleafing Horror does display,
And with its gloomy Charms excells the Day;
There the brightMorn expands its radiant Wings,
And gives new Vigor with the Light it brings ;
His Universal Muse with equal Ease
Could paint, or dismal Storms, or calmest Seas,
The Miseries of War, and Joys of Peace.

But what not Paint can tell, nor Pencil reach, His larger Genius could divinely teach; Describe the inner Paffions of the Man, And show the Steps from whence they first began.

Love He defcrib'd,tho' diffrent are its Ways, How the first flutt'ring pain disturbs our Days, And gives our Nights but half their ufual Eafe,

Then our kind Thoughts improve the Passion high'r,

'Tis restless Rage, 'tis covetous Defire,
And Love unbounded, and impetuous Fire;
Till at the last with Extafy we find
Extreamest Pleasures in one moment joyn'd,

Joys

And Joys immenfe, which leave all other Joys behind.

* Antony! how nobly doft thou charm? O Cleopatra! how dost thou disarm The rougheft Spirits, and the coldest warm? Nor fhall the pass unmention'd, who maintain'd

The Caufe of Love, and fhow'd her Love unfeign'd;

Who fcorn'd t'excufe what fle with Reafon fought,

A certain Pleasure, and imagin'd Fault,

*All for Love, or the World well loft.

+ Sigifmonda in Dryden's Fables.

But

But boldly urg'd the Argument the fhou'd,
Th' Impulse of Nature, and the Force of Blood.
So did He move the Soul, fo touch the Heart
With Virgin Paffions, not debauch'd by Art.

1. Thus could He talk of Love,and Lovers Deeds, Yet give a Loofe toRage,and manly Rage fucceeds.

His Satyr free, impartial and fevere, At once gave Pleafure, and created Fear; Who would not read what He fo juflly, writ 2. But who would be the Subject of his Wit!

Could but our modern Satyrifts have known of Satyr, they'd defpife their own:

His way

Soon would they fee the Sharpeft Muse disclaims Ill manner'd Language,and opprobrious Names:

That fordid Railing is the

poor Retreat

Of angry Malice, or unmanly Wit.