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those hanged who would take it away. It was this that made me write. i'he sense of my faults made me correct; besides that it was as pleasant to me to correct as to write.
At p. 50, 1. 25. In the first place, I own that I have used my best endeavours to the finishing these pieces; that I made what advantage I could of the judgmeut of authors dead and living; and that omitted no means in my power to be informed of errors by my friends and my enemies; and that I al. pect no favour on account of my youth, business, of health, or any such idle excuses. But the true rs son they are not yet more correct, is owing to the cat. sideration how short a time they and I have to live A man that can expect but sixty years, may be ashamed to employ thirty in measuring syllables, and bringing sense and rhyme together. We spend our youth in pursuit of riches or fame, in hopes to enjoy them when we are old ; and when we are old, we find it is too late to enjoy any thing. I therefore hope the wits will pardon me if I reserve some of my time to save my soul; and that some. wise men will be of my opinion, even if I should think a part of it better spent in the enjoymepts of life than in pleasing the critics.
MR. POPE AND HIS POEMS,
BY HIS GRACE
DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.
SITH age decay'd, with courts and bus'ness tir'd, queling for nothing but what ease requir'd; on o dully serious for the Muse's sport, And from the critics safe arriy'd in port; I little thought of launching forth agen,
5 Amidst advent'rous rovers of the pen; And after so much undeserv'd success, Thus hazarding at last to make it less.
Encomiums suit not this censorious time, Itself a subject for satiric rhyme;
10 Ignorance honour'd, wit and worth defam'd, Folly triumphant, and e'en Homer blam'd! But to this genius, join'd with so much art, Sueh various learning mix'd iu ev'ry part, Poets are bound a loud applause to pay ; Apollo bids it, and they must obey.
And yet so wonderful, sublime a thing,
20 One møral, or a mere well-natured deed, Can all desert in sciences exceed.
'Tis great delight to laugh at some men's water But a much greater to give merit praise.
TO MR. POPE,
ON HIS PASTORALS.
IN these more dull, as more censorious days, When few dare give, and fewer merit praise, A Muse sincere, that never flatt'ry knew, Pays what to friendship and desert is due. Young, yet judicious, in your yerse are found 5 Art strength’ning Nature, sense improv'd by sound; Unlike those wits, whose numbers glide along So smooth, no thought e'er interrupts the song : Laboriously enervate they appear, And write not to the head, but to the ear: 10
Our minds unmov'd and unconcer'd they Inll,
Your rural Muse appears to justify
40 With virgin charms and native excellence. Yet long her modesty those charms conceald, "Till by men's envy to the world reveal'd; For wits industrious to their trouble seeni, And needs will envy what they must esteem, 45
Live and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate. Which would, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait; Whose muse did once, like thine, in plains delight: Thine shall, like his, soon take a higher flight: So larks, which first from lowly fields arise, Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.
TO MR. POPE,
ON HIS WINDSOR FOREST.
HAIL! sacred bard! a muse unknown before