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Variations in the Author's Manufcript Preface.

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FTER pag. iv. 1. 6. it followed thus

For

my part, I confefs, had I feen things in this view at first, the public had never been troubled either with my writings, or with this apology for them. I am fenfible how difficult it is to fpeak of ones felf with decency: but when a man must fpeak of himself, the beft way is to fpeak truth of himself, or, he may depend upon it, others will do it for him. I'll therefore make this preface a general confeffion of all my thoughts of my own Poetry, refolving with the fame freedom to expose myself, as it is in the power of any other to expose them. In the first place I thank God and nature, that I was born with a love to poetry; for nothing more conduces to fill up all the intervals of our time, or, if rightly used, to make the whole courfe of life entertaining: Cantantes licet ufque (minus via lædet.) 'Tis a vast happiness to poffefs the pleasures of the head, the only pleasures in which a man is fufficient to himself, and the only part of him which, to his fatisfaction, he can employ all day long. The Mufes are amica omnium horarum; and, like our gay acquaintance, the beft company in the world as long as one expects no real fervice from them. I confefs there was a time when I was in love with myfelf, and my first productions were the children of felf love upon innocence. I had made an Epic Poem, and Panegyrics on all the Princes in Europe, and thought myself the greatest genius that ever was. I can't but regret thofe delightful vifions of my childhood, which, like the fine colours we fee when our eyes are fhut, are vanished for ever. Many tryals and fad experience have fo undeceived me VOL. I. Pref.

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by degrees, that I am utterly at a lofs at what rate to value myself. As for fame I fhall be glad of any I can get, and not repine at any I mifs; and as for vanity, I have enough to keep me from hanging myself, or even from wishing those hanged who would take it away. It was this that made me write. The fenfe of my faults made me correct befides that it was as pleasant to me to correct as to write.

At p. v. 1. 32. In the first place I own that I have used my beft endeavours to the finishing these pieces. That I made what advantage I could of the judgment of authors dead and living; and that I omitted no means in my power to be informed of my errors by my friends and by my enemies. And that I expect no favour on account of my youth, bufinefs, want of health, or any fuch idle excuses. But the true reason they are not yet more correct is owing to the confideration how short a time they and I have to live. A man that can expect but fixty years may be ashamed to employ thirty in measuring fyllables and bringing fenfe and rhime 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 referve fome of my time to fave my foul; and that fome wife men will be of my opinion, even if I fhould think a part of it better spent in the enjoyments of life than in pleafing the critics.

ΟΝ

On Mr. POP E and his Poems,

By His GRACE

JOHN SHEFFIELD,

Duke of BUCKINGHAM.

ITH Age decay'd, with Courts and bus'nefs

WITH Aged

Caring for nothing but what Ease requir'd;
Too dully ferious for the Mufe's fport,
And from the Critics fafe arriv'd in Port;
I little thought of launching forth agen,
Amidst advent'rous Rovers of he Pen;
And after fo much undeferv'd fuccefs,
Thus hazarding at laft to make itl fs.
Encomiums fuit not this cenforious time,
Itfelf a fubject for fatiric rhyme;
Ignorance honour'd, Wit and Worth defam'd,
Folly triumphant, and ev'n Homer blam'd!

But to this Genius, join'd with fo much Art,
Such various Learning mix'd in ev'ry part,
Poets are bound a loud applause to pay;
Apollo bids it, and they must obey.

And yet fo wonderful, fublime a thing,

As the great ILIAD, fcarce could make me fing;
Except I justly could at once commend
A good Companion, and as firm a Friend.

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One

One moral, or a mere well-natur'd deed
Can all defert in Sciences exceed.

'Tis great delight to laugh at fome mens ways, But a much greater to give Merit praise.

To Mr. POPE, on his Paftorals.

IN

these more dull, as more cenforious days,
When few dare give, and fewer merit praife,
A Mufe fincere, that never Flatt'ry knew,
Pays what to friendship and defert is due.
Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found 5
Art ftrength'ning Nature, Senfe improv'd by Sound.
Unlike thofe Wits, whofe 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:
Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull,
And are at beft moft mufically dull;

So purling ftreams with even murmurs creep,
And hush the heavy hearers into fleep.

As fmoothest speech is most deceitful found,
The fmootheft numbers oft are empty found.
But Wit and Judgment join at once in you,
Sprightly as Youth, as Age confummate too :
Your ftrains are regularly bold, and please
With unforc'd care, and unaffected eafe,
With proper thoughts, and lively images:
Such as by Nature to the Ancients fhown,
Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own :

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For

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For great mens fashions to be followed are,
Altho' difgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear.
Some in a polifh'd ftyle write Paftoral,
Arcadia fpeaks the language of the Mall;
Like fome fair Shepherdefs, the Sylvan Mufe,
Should wear those flow'rs her native fields produce;
And the true measure of the fhepherd's wit
Should, like his garb, be for the Country fit:
Yet muft his pure and unaffected thought

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More nicely than the common fwain's be wrought.
So, with becoming art, the Players drefs

In filks the fhepherd, and the fhepherdess;
Yet ftill unchang'd the form and mode remain,
Shap'd like the homely ruffet of the fwain.
Your rural Mufe appears to juftify
The long loft graces of Simplicity:
So rural beauties captivate our fenfe
With virgin charms, and native excellence.
Yet long her Modesty those charms conceal'd,
'Till by mens Envy to the world reveal'd ;
For Wits industrious to their trouble feem,
And needs will envy what they must esteem.

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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 fhall, like his, foon take a higher flight; So Larks, which first from lowly fields arise, 50 Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.

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W. WYCHERLEY.

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