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Launch out with freedom, flatter him enough;
Fear not all men are dedication-proof.
Be bolder yet, you must go farther ftill,
Dip deep in gall thy mercenary quill.
He, who his pen in party-quarrels draws,
Lifts an hir'd bravo to fupport the caufe';
He muft indulge his patron's hate and fpleen,
And ftab the fame of those he ne'er had feen.
Why then should authors mourn their defperate cafe ?
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 feems modern preface, where we're told
That wit is prais'd, but hungry lives and cold:
Against th' ungrateful age thefe authors roar,
And fancy learning ftarves because they're poor.
Yet why fhould learning hope fuccefs at court?
Why fhould 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 meaneft of the Mufe's train)
Can boaft fubfcriptions to my humble lays,
And mingle profit with my little praife.
Afk Painting, why the loves Hefperian air;
Go view, the cries, my glorious labours there;
There in rich palaces I reign in state,
And on the temples lofty domes create.
The nobles view my works with knowing eyes,
They love the fcience, and the painter prize.
Why didft thou, Kent, forego thy native land,
To emulate in picture Raphael's hand?
Think'st thou for this to raise thy name at home?
Go back, adorn the palaces of Rome;
There on the walls let thy juft labours shine,
And Ra hael live again in thy defign.
Yet flay awhile; call all thy genius forth,
For Burlington unbiafs'd knows thy worth;
His judgement in thy mafter-strokes can trace
Titian's ftrong fire, and Guido's fofter grace..
But, oh, confider, ere thy works appear,
Canft thou unhurt the tongue of Envy hear?
Cenfure will blame; her breath' was ever spent
To blaft the laurels of the eminent.
While Burlington's proportion'd columns rife,
Does not he stand the gaze of envious eyes?
Doors, windows, are condemn'd by paffing fools,
Who know not that they damn Palladio's rules.
If Chandos with. a liberal hand bestow,
Cenfure 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 fill'd his page,
Dennis had never kindled into rage.
'Tis the fublime that hurts the critic's ease;
Write nonfenfe, and he reads and fleeps in peace.
Were Prior, Congreve, Swift, and Pope, unknown,
Poor flander-felling Curll would be undone.
He, who would free from malice pass his days,
Muft live obfcure, and never merit praise.
But let this tale to valiant virtue tell
The daily perils of deferving well.
A crow was ftrutting o'er the tubbled plain, Just as a lark defcending closid his ftrain. The crow bespoke him thus, with folemn grace: "Thou most accomplish'd of the feather'd race! "What force of lungs! how clear! how fweet you fing! "And no bird foars upon a stronger wing." The lark, who fcorn'd foft flattery,, thus replies: "True, I fing fweet, and on ftrong pinion rife; "Yet let me pafs my life from envy free, "For what advantage are thefe gifts to me?,, "My fong confines me to the wiry cage, "My flight provokes the falcon's fatal rage. "But, as you pafs, I hear the fowlers fay,. "To shoot at crows is powder flung away.",
DUTCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH.
XCUSE me, madam, if amidst your tears
A Mufe intrudes, a Mufe who feels your cares;.
Numbers, like mufick, can ev'n grief control,
And lull to peace the tumults of the foul.
If partners in our woes the mind relieve,
Confider 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 blefs his country with a fixt repose;
Could I recount the labours he o'ercame,
To raife his country to the pitch of fame;
His councils, fieges, his victorious fights,
To fave his country's laws and native rights;
No father (every generous heart must own)
Has ftronger fondness to his darling fhown.
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 wafteful bands,
Like a wide deluge, o'er her level lands,
She faw her frontier towers in ruin lie,
Ev'n Liberty had prun'd her wings to fly :
Then Marlborough came, defeated Gallia fled;
And fhatter'd Belgia rais'd her languid head;
In him fecure, as in her strongest mound
That keeps the raging fea within its bound.
O Germany! remember Hock ftet'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 : "Be wife:
"How to his glory fhall thy numbers rife ?
"The force of verfe another theme might raife,
"But here the merit muft tranfcend the praife.
"Haft thou, presumptuous bard! that godlike flame
"Which with the fun shall laft, and Marlborough's fame?
"Then fing the man.
"Refign the task, and filently admire.”
But who can boaft this fire ?
Yet fhall he not in worthy lays be read?
Raife Homer, call up Virgil from the dead.
But he requires not the ftrong glare of verfe:
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 Mufe beftows?
I but indulge and aggravate your woes.
A prudent friend, who feeks to give relief,
Ne'er touches on the spring that mov'd the grief.
Is it not barbarous, to the fighing maid
To mention broken vows and nymphs betray'd?