He more to his new Friend than Mistress kind,
Most fadly mourns at being left behind;
Of such a Death prefers the pleafing Charms

To Love, and living in a Lady's Arms.

What fhameful and what monftrous things are

these?

And then they rail at those they cannot please;
Conclude us only partial to the Dead,

And grudge the Sign of old BEN. JOHNSON'S Head;
When the intrinsick Value of the Stage

Can scarce be judg'd but by a following Age:

For Dances, Flutes, Italian Songs, and Rhime,
May keep up finking Nonsense for a time:

But that must fail, which now fo much o'er-rules,
And Senfe no longer will fubmit to Fools.

By painful Steps at last we labour up
Parnaffus' Hill, on whose bright airy Top,
The Epick Poets fo divinely show,

And with juft Pride behold the rest below.

Heroick

Heroick Poems have a juft Pretence

To be the utmost stretch of human Sense;

A Work of fuch ineftimable Worth,

There are but two the World has yet brought forth;
HOMER and VIRGIL! with what facred Awe,

Do those mere Sounds the World's Attention draw!
Juft as a Changeling feems below the rest
Of Men, or rather is a two-legg'd Beast,
So these Gigantick Souls amaz'd we find

As much above the reft of Human Kind!
Nature's whole Strength united! endless Fame,
And Univerfal Shouts, attend their Name!

Read HOMER Once, and you can read no more
For all Books elfe appear fo mean, fo poor,
Verse will seem Profe; but still perfift to read,
And HOMER will be all the Books you need.
Had Bossu never writ, the World had still,

Like Indians, view'd this wondrous Piece of Skill
As fomething of Divine, the Work admir'd:

Not hop'd to be inftructed, but inspir'd:

But

But he, disclosing facred Myfteries,

Has fhewn where all the mighty Magick lics;
Defcrib'd the Seeds, and in what order fown,
That have to fuch a vaft Proportion grown.
Sure, from fome Angel he the Secret knew,
Who through this Labyrinth has lent the Clue!
But what, alas! avails it poor Mankind,

To fee this promis'd Land, yet ftay behind?
The Way is fhewn, but who has Strength to go?
Who can all Sciences profoundly know?

Whofe Fancy flies beyond weak Reason's Sight,
And yet has Judgment to direct it right?
Whose just Discernment, VIRGIL-like, is fuch,'
Never to say too little, or too much?
Let fuch a Man begin without delay;

But he must do beyond what I can fay;

Muft above Tasso's lofty Flights prevail,

Succeed where SPENCER, and ev'n MILTON fail.

VOL, I.

L

ODE

с

'Tis only one Man tells another fo.

And, for this great Dominion here,

Which over other Beasts we claim,

Reafon, our best Credential does appear;
By which indeed we domineer ;

But how abfurdly, we may fee with fhame.

Reafon,

Reason, that folemn Trifle! light as Air ;

Driv'n up and down, by Cenfure, or Applaufe:

By partial Love away 'tis blown,

Or the leaft Prejudice can weigh it down;

Thus our high Privilege becomes our Snare.
In any nice, and weighty Cause,

How weak, at beft, is Reason! yet the Grave
Impose on that small Judgment which we have.

II.

In all those Wits, whofe Names have fpread fo wide,

And ev'n the force of Time defy'd,

Some Failings yet may be defcry'd.

Among the reft, with Wonder be it told

That BRUTUS is admir'd for CÆSAR'S Death; By which he yet furvives in Fame's immortal Breath. BRUTUS, ev'n he, of all the rest,

In whom we should that Deed the most deteft,

Is of Mankind esteem'd the best.