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When Nestor spoke, none ask'd if he prevail'd; Who the Sun's height can raise at pleasure highet, That god of sweet persuasion never fail'd:

His lamp illumine, set his flames on fire. And such great fame had Hector's valour wrought, Yet still one bliss, one glory, I forbear, Who meant he conquer'd, only said he fought. A darling friend whom near your beart you wear;

When you, my lord, to syivan scenes retreat, That lovely youth, my lord, whom you must No crowds around for pleasure, or for state,

blame, You are not cast upon a stranger land,

That I grow thus familiar with your name. And wander pensive o'er the barren strand;

He's friendly, open, in his conduct nice, Nor are you by receiv'd example taught,

Nor serve these virtues to atone for rice: In toys to shun the discipline of thought;

Vice he has none, or such as none wish less, But unconfin'd by bounds of time and place, But friends indeed, good-nature in excess. You choose companions from all human race; You cannot boast the merit of a choice, Converse with those the deluge swept away, In making bim your own, 'twas Nature's voice, Or those whose midnight is Britannia's day. Which call’d too loud by man to be withstood,

Books not so much inform, as give consent Pleading a tie far nearer than of lov; To those ideas your own thoughts present;

Similitude of manners, such a mind Your only gain from turning volumes o'er,

As makes yon less the wonder of mankind. Is finding cause to like yourself the more :

Such ease his common converse recommends, In Grecian sages you are only taught

As he ne'er felt a passion, but his friend's; With more respect to value your own thought : Yet fix'd his principles, beyond the force Great Tully grew immortal, while he drew

Of all beneath the Sun, to bend his course3. Those precepts we behold alive in you :

Thus the tall cedar, beautiful and fair, Your life is so adjusted to their schools,

Flatters the motions of the wanton air; It makes that history they meant for rules. Salutes each passing breeze with head reclin'd; What joy, what pleasing transport, must arise The pliant branches dance in every wind : Within your breast, and lift you to the skies, But fix'd the stem ber upright state maintains, When in each learned page that you unfold, And all the fury of the North disdains. You find some part of your own conduct told ! How are you bless'd in such a matchless friend!

So pleas'd, and so surpris'd, Æneas stood, Alas! with me the joys of friendship end; And such triumphant raptures fir'd his blood, O Harrison! I must, I will complain ; When far from Trojan shores the hero spied Tears sooth the soul's distress, though shed in vain; His story shining forth in all its pride;

Didst thou return, and bless thy native shore Admir'd himself, and saw his actions stand With welcome peace, and is my friend no more? The praise and wonder of a foreign land.

Thy task was early done, and I must own He knows not half his being, who's confin'd Death kind to thee, but ah! to thee alone. In converse, and reflection on mankind :

But 'tis in me a vanity to mourn, Your soul, which understands her charter well, The sorrows of the great thy tomb adorn ; Disdains imprison'd by those skies to dwell; Strafford and Boling broke the loss perceive, Ranges eternity without the leave

They grieve, and make thee envied in thy grare. Of death, nor waits the passage of the grave.

With aching heart, and a foreboding mind, When pains eternal, and eternal bliss,

I night to day in painful journey join'd, When these high cares your weary thoughts dismiss, When first inform’d of his approaching fate; In heavenly nuinbers you your soul unbend, But reach'd the partner of my soul too late : And for your ease to deathless fame descend. 'T' was past, his cheek was cold; that tuneful tongue, Ye kings ! would ve true greatness understand, Which Isis charm'd with its melodious song, Read Seneca grown rich in Granville's hand ? Now languish'd, wanted strength to speak bis pain,

Behold the glories of your life complete! Scarce rais'd a fceble groan, and sunk again : Süll at a flow, and permanently great ;

Each art of life, in which he bore a part, New moments shed new pleasures as they fly, Shot like an arrow through my bleeding heart. And yet your greatest is, that you must die. To what serv'd all his promis'd wealth and power,

Thus Anna saw, and rais'd you to the seat But more to load that most unhappy hour? Of honour, and confess'd her servant great;

Yet still prevail'd the greatness of his mind; Confessid, not made him such; for faithful Fame That, not in health, or life itself confind, Hler trumpet swellid long since with Granville's Felt through his mortal pangs Britannia's peace, name;

Monnted to joy, and smil'd in Death's embrace. Though you in modesty the title wear,

His spirit now just ready to resign, Your name shall be the title of your heir;

No longer bow his own, no longer mine, Farther than ermin make his glory known),

Ile

grasps my hand, his swimming eye-balls roll, And cast in shades the favour of a throne.

My lianci be grasps, and enters in my soul : From thrones the beam of high distinction springs; Then with a groan--Support me, o! beware The soul's endowments from the King of kings, Of holding worth, however great, too dear 4! Lo! one great day calls forth ten mighty peers! Pardon, my lord, the privilege of grief, Produce ten Granvilles in five thousand years; That in untimely freedom seeks relief; Anna, be thou content to fix the fate Of various kingdoms, and control the great;

3 His lordship's nephew, who took orders. Bul O! to bid thy Granville brighter sline!

Young To him that great prerogative resign,

4 The author here bewails that most ivgenious

gentleman, Mr. William Harrison, fellow of Net? See his lordship’s tragedy entitled “ Hervic College, Oxon. Yousa.[See a more particular Love,"souro

account of him in the Supplcmcut to Swift.]

Te better fate your love I recommend,

Rich, poor, male, female, young, old, gay, or sad; 0! may you never lose so dear a friend!

Whether extremely witty, or quite mad; May nothing interrupt your happy hours;

Profoundly dull, or shallowly polite; Enjoy the blessings peace on Europe showers : Men that read well, or men that only write; Nor yet disdain those blessings to adorn ;

Whether peers, porters, tailors, tune the reeds, To make the Muse immortal, you was born. And measuring words to measuring shapes succeeds; Sing; and in latest time, when story 's dark, for bankrupts write, when ruin'd shops are shut, This period your surviving fime shall mark; As maggots crawl from out a perish'd nut. Save from the gulf of years this glorious age, His hainier this, and that his trowel quits, And thus illustrate their historian's page.

And, wanting sense for tradesmen, serve for wits.
The crown of Spain in doubtfal balance hung, By thriving men subsists each other trade;
And Anna Britain sway'd, when Granville sung: Of every broken craft a writer's made:
That noted year Europa sheath'd her sword, Thus his material, paper, takes its birth
When this great man was first saluted lord. From tatter'd rags of all the stuff on Earth.

Hail, fruitful isle! to thee alone belong
Millions of wits, and brokers in old song ;

Thee well a land of liberty we name,
TWÓ EPISTLES

Where all are free to scandal and to shame;

Thy sons, by print, may set their hearts at ease, TO MR. POPI.,

And be mankind's contempt, whene'er they please; CONCERNING

Like trodilen filth, their vile and abject sense THE AUTHORS OF THE AGE.

Is unperceiv'd, but when it gives offence :

Their heavy prose our injur'd reason tires;
MDCCXXX.

Their verse immortal kindles loose desires :

Our age they puzzle, and corrupt our prime, EPISTLE I.

Our sport and pity, punishment and crinie.

What glorious motives urge our authors on, Whilst you at Twickenham plan the future wood, Thus to undo, and thus to be undone! Or turn the volumes of the wise and good,

One loses his estate, and down he sits, Crir senate meets ; at parties, parties bawl, To show (in vain !) he still retains bis wits : Aud pamphlets stun the streets, and load the stall. Another marries, and his dear prores keen; So rushing tides bring things obscene to light, He writes as an hypnotic for thic spleen: Foul wrecks emerge, and dead dogs swim in sight; | Some write, contin'd by physic; some, by debt; The civil torrent fuams, the tumult reigns,

Some, for 't is Sunday; some, because 't is wet; And Codrus' prose works up, and Licu's strains. Through private pique somne do the public right, LD! what from cellars rise, what rush from high, And love their king and country out of spite: Where speculation roosted near the sky;

Another writes because his father writ, Letters, essays, sock, buskin, satire, song, And proves hiinself a bastard by bis wit. And all the garret thunders on the throng!

Has Lico learning, humour, thought profound? O Pope! I burst; nor can, nor will, refrain; Neither: why write then? He wants twenty pound: I'll write; let others, in their turn, complain : His belly, not his brains. this impulse give; Truce, truce, ye Vandals ! my tormented ear He'll grow immortal; for he cannot live: Less dreads a pillory than a pamphleteer ;

He rubs his awful front, and takes his ream, I've heard myself to death; and, plagud each With no provision made, but of his theme; hour,

Perhaps a title has his fancy smit,
Sha'n't I return the vengeance in my power? Or a quaint motto, which he thinks has wit:
For who can write the true absurd like me?

He writes, in inspiration pnts his trust,
Thy pardon, Codrus ! who, I mean, but thee? Though wrong his thoughts, the gods will make
Pope! if like mine, or Codrus', were thy style,

them just; The blood of vipers had not stain'd thy tile; Genius directly from the gods descends, Merit less solid, less despite had bred;

And who by labour would distrust bis friends ? They had not bit, and then they had not bled. Thus having reason'd with consummate skill, Fame is a public mistress, none enjovs,

In immortality he dips his quill: But, more or less, his rival's peace destroys; And, since blank paper is deoy'd the press, With fame, in just proportion, emy grows; He mingles the whole alphabet by guess: The man that makes a character, makes fues : lu various sets, which various words compose, Slight, peevish insects round a genius rise,

Of u bich, he hopes, mankind the meaning knows. As a bright day awakes the world of fies;

Sy sounds spontaneous from the Sibyl broke, With hearty malice, but with feeble wing,

Dark to herself the wonders wbich she spoke; (To show they live) they tlutter, and they sting: The priests found out the ineaning, if they could; But as by depredations wasps proclaim

And nations star'd at what none understood. The fairest fruit, so these the fairest fame.

Clodiu dress’d, danc'd, drank, visited, (the whole Shall we not censure all the motley train, And great concern of an immortal soul!) Whether with ale irriguous, or Champain? Oft have I said “ Anake! exist! and strive Whether they trcail the vale of prose, or climb, For birth! nor think to loiter is to live !" and whet their appetites on cliffs of rhyrne ; As oft I overheard the demon say, The college sloven, or embroider'd spark;

Who daily met the loiterer in bis way, The purple prelate, or the parish clerk ;

I'll meet thee, youth, at White's:" the youth The quiet quidnunc, or demanding prigi

replies, The plaintiff tory, or defendant whig;

I'll meet thee there," and fails his sacrifice; VOL. XIII,

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fire;

His fortune squander'd, leaves his virtue bare Your power is fixt, your fame through time con. To every bribe, and blind to every snare :

vey'd, Clodio for bread his indolence must quit,

And Britain Europe's queen-if I am paid.” Or turn a soldier, or commence a wit.

A statesman has his answer in a trice; Such beroes have we! all, but life, they stake; Sir, such a genius is beyond all price; How must Spain trenible, and the German shake! Wbat man can pay for this?"-Away he turns : Such writers have we! all, but sense, they print; His work is folded, and his bosom burns : E'en George's praise is dated from the Mint. His patron he will patronise no more; In arms contemptible, in arts profane,

But rushes like a tempest out of door. Such swords, such pens, disgrace a monarch's reign. Lost is the patriot, and extinct his name! Reform your lives before you thus aspire,

Out comes the piece, another, and the same; And steal (for you can steal) celestial fire.

For A, his magic pen evokes an 0, 0! the just contrast! 0! the beauteous strife! And turns the tide of Europe on the foe : 'T wixt their cool writings, and Pindaric life : He rams his quill with scandal and with scoff; They write with phelgm, but then they live with But 't is so very foul, it wou't go off:

Dreadful his thunders, while unprinted, roar; They cheat the lender, and their works the buyer. But, when once publish'd, they are heard no more. I reverence misfortune, not deride;

Thus distant bugbears fright; but, nearer draw, I pity poverty, but laugh at pride :

The block 's a block, and turns to mirth your awe. For who so sad, but must some mirth confess

Can those oblige, whose heads and hearts are At gay Castruchio's miscellaneous dress?

such? Though there's but one of the dull works he wrote, No; every party's tainted by their touch. There's ten editions of his old lac'd coat.

Infected persons fy each public place;
These, Nature's communers, who want a home, And none, or enemies alone, embrace:
Claim the wide world for their majestic dome; To the foul fiend their every passion's sold:
They make a private study of the street;

They love, and hate, extempore, for gold :
And, looking full on every man they meet, What image of their fury can we form?
Run souse against bis chaps; who stands ainazd Dulness and rage, a puddle in a storm.
To find they did not see, but only gaz'd.

Rest they in peace? If you are pleas'd to buy, How must these bards be rapt into the skies? To swell your sails, like Lapland winds, they fy: You need not read, you feel their ecstasies. Write they with rage? The tempest quickly tags;

Will they persist? 'T' is madness; Lintot, run, A state-Ulysses tames them with bis bags; See them confin'd—“(), that's already done.” Let bim be what he will, Turk, Pagan, Jew; Most, as by leases, by the works they print, For Christian ministers of state are few. Have took, for life, possession of the Mint.

Behind the curtain lurks the fountain head, If you mistake, and pity these poor men,

That pours his politics through pipes of lead; Est ululris, they cry, and write again.

Which far and near eaculate, and spout Such wits their nuisance manfully expose, O'er tea and coffee, poison to the rout: And then 'pronounce just judges learning's foes; But when they have bespatter'd all they may, O frail conclusion ! the reverse is true;

The statesman throws his filthy squirts away! If foes to learning, they 'd be friends to you:

With golden forceps, these, another takes, Treat them, ye judges ! with an honest scorn, And state elixirs of the vipers makes. And weed the cockle from the generous corn : The richest statesman wants wherewith to pay There's true good-nature in your disrespect; A servile scycophant, if well they weigh In justice to the good, the bad neglect:

How much it costs the wretch to be so base ; For immortality, if hardships plead,

Nor can the greatest powers enough disgrace, It is not theirs who write, but ours who read. Enough chastise, such prostitute applause,

But, ()! what wisdom can convince a fool, If well they weigh how much it stains their cause. But that 't is dulness to conceive him dull ?

But are our writers ever in the wrong? 'Tis sari experience takes the censur's part, Does virtue ne'er seduce the venal tongue? Conviction, not from reason, but from smart. Yes; if well brib'd, for virtue's self they fight; A virgin-author, recent from the press,

Still in the wrong, though champions for the right: The sheets yet wet, applands bis great success ; Whoe'er their crimes for interest only quit, Surveys thein, reads thein, takes their charnis to Sin on in virtue, and good deeds commit. bell,

Nought but inconstancy Britannia meets, Those in his hand, and glory in his head :

And broken faith in their abandon'd sheets; "T is joy too great; a fever of delight !

Froin the same hand how various is the page! His heart beats thick, nor close bis eyes all night : What civil war their brother pamphlets wage! But, rising the next morn to clasp his fame, Tracts battle tracts, self-contradictions glare; He finds that without sleeping he could dream: Say, is this lunacy?--I wish it were. So sparks, they say, take goddesses to bed, If such our writers, startled at the sight, And find next day the devil in their stead.

Felons may bless their stars they cannot write! In vain advertisements the town o'erspread ; How justly Proteus' transmigrations fit They ’re epitaphs, and say the work is dead. The monstrous changes of a modern wit! Who press for fame, but small recruits will raise; Now such a gentle stream of eloquence "Tis volunteers alone can give the bays.

As seldom rises to the verge of sense ; A fimons author visits a great man,

Now, by mad rage, transform'd into a flame, Of his inimortal work displays the plan,

Which yet fit engines, well apply'd, can tame; And says, “Sir, I'm your fr end; all fears dismiss; Now, on immodest trash, the swine očscente Your glory, and my own, shall live by this; luvites the town to sup at Drury-lane ;

A dreadful lion, now he roars at power,
Which sends him to his brothers at the Tower;

EPISTLE II.
He's now a serpent, and his double tongue

FROM OXFORD.
Salutes, nay licks, the feet of those he stung;
What knot can bind him, his evasion such ?

All write at London ; shall the rage abate
One knot he well deserves, which might do much.

Here, where it most should shine, the Muses' seat? The flood, flame, swine, the lion, and the snake,

Where, mertal, or immortal, as they please, Those fivefold monsters, modern authors make :

The learn'd may choose eternity or ease? The snake reigns most ; snakes, Pliny says, are

Has not a royal patron' wisely strove bred,

To woo the Muse in her Athenian grove? When the brain's perish'd in a human head.

Added new strings to her harmonious shell, Ye grov'lling, trodden, whipt, stript, turncoat things, and given new tongues to those u bo spoke so well ? Made up of venom, volumes, stains, and stings !

Let these instruct with truth's illustrious ray, Thrown from the tree of knowledge, like you,

Awake the world, and scare our owls away.

Mean while, O friend ! indulge me, if I give curst To scribble in the dust, was Snake the first.

Some needful precepts how to write, and live; What if the figure should in fact prove true ?

Serious should be an author's final views; It did in Elkenah', why not in you?

Who write for pure amusement, ne'er amuse. Poor Elkenah, all other changes past,

An author ! 'Tis a venerable namne! For bread in Smithfield dragons hiss'd at last,

How few deserve it, and what numbers claim ! Spit streams of fire to make the butchers

Unblest with sense above their peers refin'd,

gape, And found his manners suited to his shape:

Who shall stand up, dictators to mankind ? Such is the fate of talents misapply'd ;

Nay, who dare shine, if not in virtue's

cause, So liv'd your prototype; and so he died.

That sole proprietor of just applause ? Th'abandon'd manners of our writing train

Ye restless men, who pant for letter'd praise, May tempt mankind to think religion vain;

With whom would you consult to gain the bays? But in their fate, their babit, and their mien,

With those great authors whose fam'd works you

read? That gods there are is eminently scen: Heaven stands absolv'd by vengeance on their pen,

'T is well : go, then, consult the laurel'd shade, And marks the murderers of fame from men:

What answer will the laurel'd shade return? Through meagre jaws they draw their venal breath, Hear it, and tremble! he commands vou burn

The noblest works bis envy'd genius writ,
As ghastly as their brothers in Macbeth :
Their feet through faithless leather meet the dirt,

That boast of naught more excellent than uit. And oftener chang’d their principles than shirt.

If this be true, as 't is a truth most dread, The transient vestment of these frugal men

Woe to the page which has not that to plead' Hastens to paper for our mirth again :

Fontaine and Chancer, dying, wish'd unwrote Too soon (O merry-melancholy fate!)

The sprightliest efforts of their wanton thought : They beg in rhyme, and warble through a grate :

Sidney and Waller, brightest sons of fame, The man lampoon'd forgets it at the sight;

Condemn the charın of ages to the fame ; The friend through pity gives, the fue through spite; And in one point is all true wisdom cast, And though full conscious of his injur'd purse,

To think that early we must think at last. Lintot relents, nor Curll can wish them worse.

Immortal wits, e'en dead, break Nature's laws, So fare the men, who writers dare commence

Injurious still to virtue's sacred cause; Without their patent, probity and sense.

And their guilt growing, as their borlies rot, From these, their politics our quidnunes seek,

(Revers'd ambition!) pant to be forgot. And Saturday's the learning of the week :

Thus ends your courted fame : does lucre then,

The sacred thirst of gold, betray your pen? These labouring wits, like paviers, mend our ways,

In With heavy, huge, repeated, Nat essays;

prose 't is blameable, in verse 't is worse, Pam their coarse nonsense down, though ne'er so

Provokes the Muse, extorts Aprillo's curse; dull;

His sacred influence never should be sold; And hem at every thump upon your scull:

'Tis arrant simony to sing for gold: These stanch-bred writing hounds begin the cry,

'T' is immortality should tire your mind; And honest folly echoes to the lie.

Scorn a less paymaster than all mankind. O how I laugh, when I a blockhead see,

If bribes ve seek, know this, ye writing tribe ! Thanking a villain for his probity!

Hlbo writes for virtue has the largest bribe: Who stretches out a most respectful ear,

All's on the party of the virtuous man ; With snares for woodcocks in his holy leer:

The good will surely serve him, if they can; It tickles through my soul to hear the cock's

The bad, when interest or ambition guide, Sincere encomium on his friend the for,

And 't is at once their interest and their pride:

But should both fail to take him to their care,
Sole patron of his liberties and rights !
While graceless Reynard li-tens--till he bites.

He boasts a greater friend, and both may spare. As, when the trumpet sounds, th' o'erloaded

Letters to man uncommon light dispense;

And what is rirtue, but superior sense? state Discharges all her poor and profligate ;

In parts and learning ye who place your pride, Crimes of all kinds dishonour'd weapons wield,

Your faults are crimes, your crimes are double

dy'd. And prisons pour their filth into the field; Thus Nature's refuse, and the dreys of inen,

What is a scandal of the first renown,

But letter'd knaves, and atheists in a gown?
Compose the black militia of the pen.
Settle, the city poct.

King George I.

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ST is harder far to please than give offence; Our age demands correctness ; Addison The least misconduct damns the brightest sense ; And you this commendable hurt have done. Fach shallow pate, that cannot read your name, Now writers find, as once Achilles found, Can read your life, and will be proud to blame. The whole is mortal, if a part's unsound. Flagitious manners make impressions deep

He that strikes out, and strikes not out the lest, On those that o'er a page of Milton sleep :

Pours lustre in, and dignifies the rest : Nor in their dulness think to save your shame, Give e'er so little, if what's right be there, True, these are fools; but wise men say the same. We praise for what you burn, and what you spare : Wits are a despicable race of men,

The part you baru smells sweet before the sbrige, If they confine their talents to the pen;

And is as incense to the part divine. When the man shocks us, while the writer shines, Nor frequent write, though you can do it well; Our scorn in life, our envy in his lines.

Men may tvo oft, though not too much, excel. Yet, proud of parts, with prudence some dispense, a few good works gain fame; more sink their price; And play the fool, because they're men of sense. Mankind are fickle, and hate paring twice: What instances bleed recent in each thought, They granted you writ well: what can they more, Of men to ruin by their genius brought!

Unless you let them praise for giving o'er? Against their wills what numbers ruin shun,

Do boldly what you do; and let your page Purely through want of wit to be undone !

Smile, if it smiles, and if it rages, rage. Nature has shown, by making it so rare,

So faintly Lucius censures and commends, That wit's a jewel which we need not wear. That Lucius has no foes, except his friends. Of plain sound sense life's current coin is made; Let satire less engage you than applause; With that we drive the most substantial trade. It shows a generous mind to wink at flaws:

Prudence protects and guides us, wit betrays; Is genius yours? Be yours a glorious end, A splendid source of ill ten thousand ways; Be your king's, country's, truth's, religion's friend; A certain snare to miseries iminense ;

The public glory by your own beget; A gay prerogative from common sense ;

Run nations, rum posterity, in debt. Unless strong judgment that wild thing can tame, And since the fam'd alone make others live, And break to paths of virtue and of fame.

First have that glory you presume to give. But grant your judgment equal to the best, If satire obarins, strike faults, but spare the man; Sense fills your head, and genius fires your breast; / 'Tis dull to be as witty as you can. Yet still forbear: your wit (consider well)

Satire recoils whenever charg'd too high; 'Tis great to show, but greater to conceal;

Round your own fame the fatal splinters fly. As it is great to scize the golden prize

As the soft plume gives swiftness to the dart, Of place or power; but greater to despise. Good-breeding sends the satire to the heart. If still you languish for an author's name,

Pajuters and sirgeons may the structure scan; Think private merit less than public fame,

Genius and morals be with yon the man : And fancy not to write is not to live;

Defaults in those alone should give offence; Deserve, and take, the great prerogative,

Who strikes the person, pleads his innocence. But ponder what it is; how dear 't will cost, My narrow-minded satire can't extend To write one page which you may justly boast. To Codrus' forin; I'm not so much bis friend :

Sense may be good, yet not deserve the press ; Himself should publish that (the world agree) Who write, an awful character profess;

Before his works, or in the pillory. The world as pupil of their wisdom claim,

Let him be black, fair, tall, short, thin, or fat, And for their stipend an immortal faine :

Dirty clean, I lind no theme in that. Nothing but what is solid or relin'd

Is that call'id humour It has this pretence, Should dare ask publie audience of mankind. 'Tis neither virtue, breeding, wit, or sense.

Severely weigh your learning and your wit: Unless you boast the genius of a Swift, Keep down your pride by what is nobly writ: Beware of humour, the dull rogue's last shift. No writer, fam'd in your own way, pass o'er; Can others write like you? Your task give o'er, Much trust example, but reflection more:

"T is printing what was publish'd long before. More had the antients writ, they more had taught; If nanight peculiar through your labours run, Which shows some work is left for modern thought. They're duplicates, and twenty are but one.

This weigh'd perfection know; and, know Think frequently, think close, read nature, turn Toil, brurn for that; but do not aim at more; Men's manners o'er, and half your volume: buru; Above, beneath it, the just liinits fix;

To purse with quick reflection be your strife, And zealously prefer four lines to six.

Thoughts born from present objects, warm from life; Write, and re-write, blot out, and write again, When most unsought, such inspirations rise, And for its suisiness ne'er applaud vour pen. Slighted by fools, and cherish'd by the wise: Leave to the jockeys that Newmarket praise, Expect peculiar fame from these alone; Slow runs the Pegasus that wins the bays.

These make an author, these are all your own. Much time for immortulity to pay,

Life, like their Bibles, coolly men turni v'er; Is just and wise ; for less is thrown away.

Hence unexperienc'd children of threescore. Time only can mature the labouring brains

frue, all men think of course, as all men dream; Time is the father, and the midwife pain i

And if they slightly think, 't is much the same. The same good sense that makes a man excel, Letters admit not of a half-renown; Still makes hin doubt he ne'er has written well. They give you nothing, or they give a croun. Townright impossibilities they seek;

No work c'er gain'd true fame, or ever can, What inan can be iininortal in a week ?

But what did honour to the name of man. Excuse 116 fmult; though beautiful, 't will harm; Weighty the subject, cogent the discourse, One fauir sheks suure than twenty beauties charm. Clear be the style, the very sound of force;

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