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Launch out with frcedom, Alatter him enough;
Fear not-all men are dedication-proof.
Be bolder yet, you must go farther still,
Dip deep in gall thy merce

rcenary quill.
He, who his pen in party-quarrels draws,
Lifts an hir'd bravo to support the cause ;
He inust indulge his patron's hate and spleen,
And stab the fame of those he ne'er had seen.
Why then should authors mourn their desperate case ?
Be brave, do this, and then demand a place.
Why art thou poor ? Exert'the gifts to rife,
And banish timorous virtue from thy eyes.

All this seems modern preface, where we're told
That wit is prais’d, but hungry lives and cold:
Against th’ungrateful age these authors roar,
And fancy learning starves because they ’re poor.
Yet why should learning hope success at court?
Why should our patriots virtue's cause support ?
Why to true merit should they have regard !
They know that virtue is its own reward.
Yet let not me of grievances complain,
Who (though the meanest of the Mufe's train)
Can boast subscriptions to my humble lays,
And mingle profit with my little praise. ;

Ak Painting, why she loves Hesperian air ;
Go view, she cries, my gloribus labours there
There in rich palaces I reign in state,
And on the temples lofty domes create.
The nobles view my works withi knowing eyes,
They love the science, and the painter prize.


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Why didft thou, Kent, forego thy native land,
To emulate in picture Raphael's hand ?
Think'At thou for this to raise thy name at home?
Go back, adorn the palaces of Rome;
There on the walls let thy just labours shine,
And Ra hael live again in thy design.
Yet slay awhile ; call all thy genius forth,
For Burlington unbiass'd knows thy worth ;
His judgement in thy master-strokes can trace.
Tician's strong fire, and Guido's softer grace.
But, oh, consider, ere thy wosks appear,
Canst thou unhurt the tongue of Envy hear ?
Cenfure will blame; her breath was ever spent
To blast the laurels of the eminent.
While Burlington's proportion'd columns rise,
Does not he stand the gaze of envious eyes
Doors, windows, are condemn’d by passing fools,
Who know not that they damn Palladio's rules.
If Chandos with, a liberal hand bestow,
Censure imputes it all to pomp and show;
When, if the motive right were understood,
His daily pleasure is in doing good.

Had Pope with groveling numbers fillid his page,
Dennis had never kindled into rage.
'Tis the sublime that hurts the critic's ease;
Write nonsense, and he reads and Neeps in peace.
Were Prior, Congreve, Swift, and Pope, unknown,
Poor sander-selling Curll would be undone.
He, who would free from malice pass his days,
Mult live obscure, and never merit praise,

But 4

But let this tale to vaļiant virtue tell
The daily perils of deserving well.

A crow was strutting o'er the stubbled plain, Just as a lark descending closid his strain. The crow bespoke him thus, with solemn grace : “ Thou most accomplish'd of the featherd race ! “ What force of lungs! how clear! how sweet you sing! “ And no bird soars upon a stronger wing." The lark, who scorn'd soft flattery,, thus replies: " True, I sing sweet, and on strong pinion rise ; « Yet let me pass my life from envy free, “ For what advantage are these gifts to me? “ My song confines me to the wiry cages...

My flight provokes the falcon's fatal rage. 1.14 “ But, as you pass, I hear the fowlers say, “ To shoot at crows is powder Aung away.",

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A Mafe intrudes, a Mufe who feels your cares;
Numbers, like musick, can ev'n grief control,
And lull to peace the tumults of the soul

If partners in our woes the mind relieve,
Consider for your lofs ten thousands grieve ;
'Th' affliction burthens not your heart alone ;
When Marlborough died, a nation gave a groan.
Could I recite the dangerous toils he chose,
To bless his country with a fixt repose ;
Could I recount the labours he o'ercame,
To raise his country to the pitch of fame;
His councils, fieges, his victorious fights,
To save his country's laws and native rights;
No father (every generous heart must o:vn)
Has stronger fondness to his darling shown.
Britannia's fighs a double lofs deplore,
Her father and her hero is no more.

Does Britain only pay her debt of tears?
Yes. Holland fighs, and for her freedom fears.
When Gallia's monarch pour'd his wasteful bands,
Like a wide deluge, o'er her level lands,


She saw her frontier rowers in ruin lie,
Ev'n Liberty had prun'd her wings to fly :
Then Marlborough came, defeated Gallia fled ;
And shatter'd Belgia rais'd her languid head;
In him secure, as in her strongest mound
That keeps the raging sea within its bound.

O Germany! remember Hock stét's plain,
Where proftrate Gallia bled at every vein ;
Think on the rescue of th’ imperial throne,
Then think of Marlborough's death without a groan!

Apollo kindly whispers me : 66 Be wise : “ How to his glory shall thy numbers rise? « The force of verse another theme might raise, “ But here the merit must transcend the praife. “ Haft thou, presumptuous bard! that godlike flame " Which with the sun shall last, and Marlborough's fame? 6 Then sing the man.

But who can boast this fire ?
Resign the task, and filently admire."

Yet shall he not in worthy lays be read ::
Raise Homer, call up Virgil from the dead.
But he requires 'not the strong glare of verse:
Let punctual history his deeds rehearse;
Let truth in native purity appear,
You 'll find Achilles and Æneas there.

Is this the comfort which the Muse bestows?
I but indulge and aggravate your woes.
A prudent friend, who feeks to give relief,
Ne'cr touches on the spring that mov’d the grief.
Is it not barbarous, to the sighing maid
To mention broken vows and nymphs betray'd ?



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