Nor Thoughts, which naufeous Images infpire, And damp the glowing heat of foft defire: But calm and eafy the fweet Numbers move, And ev'ry Verse is influenc'd by Love. Here, bright Lucinda, you'll with pleasure fee Perform'd, what Nature has outdone in Thee. Nature (whom We a cruel Mother find, But too indulgent to the Female Kind,) Has with nice Art and a peculiar Care Chofe the Perfections of each charming Fair; Aurelia's Judgment, and Corinna's Wit,

And Chloe's Beauty in Lucinda mect;

In thee their beams with pow'rful influence join,
And what was fingly bright, united is Divine.
Oh! that Lucinda too wou'd but improve
The charms of Beauty, with the charms of Love;
'Tis that alone enflaves the willing mind,
And makes our Chains more fure, yet softer bind,
When Beauty Smiles, her Darts refistless are;
And the Fair Maid that's Kind, is doubly Fair

Nature's chief Mafter-piece is Writing well; And of all forts of Writing none there are That can the least with Poetry compare :No kind of work requires fo nice a touch, And if well finib'd, nothing fhines fomuch;

But Heav'n forbid we should be fo profane,
'To grace the Vulgar with that facred Name;
'Tis not a flash of Fancy, which fometimes
Dazling our Minds, sets off the flighteft Rhimes;
Bright as a Blaze, but in a moment done;
True Wit is everlasting, like the Sun;

Which the fometimes behind a Cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.

Number, and Rhime, and that harmonious
Sound,

Which never does the Ear with Harfbnefs wound,

Are neceffary, yet but vulgar Arts
For all in vain these fuperficial parts
Contribute to the Structure of the whole
Without a Genius too, for that's the Soul;
A Spirit which infpires the Work throughout,
As that of Nature moves the World about;
A Heat which glows in every word that's writ,
'Tis fomething of Divine, and more than Wit ;

It felf unseen, yet all things by it shown,

Defcribing all Men, but defcrib'd by none.

Where doft thou dwell? What Caverns of the

Brain

Can such a vaft, and mighty thing, contain? When I, at idle hours, in vain thy absence mourn,

O where doft thou retire? and why doft thou

return,

Sometimes with powerful Charms to hurry me

away

From Pleasures of the Night, and Business of the Day?

Evin now too far tranfported, I am fain

To check thy Course, and use the needful Rein,
As all is Dullness, when the Fancy's bad,
So without Judgment, Fancy is but mad ;
And Judgment has a boundless Influence,
Not only in the choice of Words or Senfe,

1

But

But on the World, on Manners, and on Men;

Fancy is but the Feather of the Pen;

Reafon is that fubftantial useful part,

Which gains the Head, while t'other wins the Heart.

Here I fhould all the various forts of Verfe, And the whole Art of Poetry rehearse,

But who that Task can after Horace do?
The best of Masters, and Examples too!..
Ecchoes at best, all we can fay is vain,
Dull the Defign, and fruitlefs were the pain;
'Tis true, the Ancients we may rob with cafe,
But who with that fad fhift himself can pleafe,

Without an Actor's pride: A Player's Art,

Is above his, who writes a lorrowed

part.

Yet modern Laws are made for later Faults,
And new Abfurdities infpire new Thoughts;
What need has Satyr then to live on Theft,
When fo much fresh occafion ftill is left?