To let no noble flave come near, Then Bounce ('tis all that Bounce can crave) And though no doctors, Whig or Tory ones, Have immortality affign'd Το any beast but Dryden's hind *: Yet mafter Pope, whom Truth and Sense "A milk-white hind, immortal and unchang'd." Hind and Panther, ver. 1. + Orig. Sticks; purpofely mif-fpelt, to make it "the ❝ dread of dogs." EPISTLE EPISTLE X. TO THE LEARNED INGENIOUS AUTHOR O F LICENTIA POETICA DISCUSSED, OR THE TRUE TEST OF POETRY. Written in 1709. THE vulgar notion of poetic fire Is, that laborious Art can ne'er aspire, } * Dr. William Coward, a phyfician of fome eminence. He was author of a great variety of treatifes on various fubjects, medical, poetical, and religious. The latter having been principally of a fceptical nature, he is generally ranked amongst the Deiftical writers. N. Through Through your Perspective we can plainly fee, ; To steep Parnaffus you direct the way So fmooth, that venturous travellers cannot stray, EPISTLE XI. DR. GARTH ΤΟ M R. GAY. WHEN ANACREONTIC. HEN Fame did o'er the fpacious plains And liften'd to the tuneful ftrains, And wonder'd who could fing so sweet : "Twas thus. The Graces held the lyre, Th' harmonious frame the Mufes ftrung, The Loves and Smiles compos'd the choir; And Gay tranfcrib'd what Phoebus fung. EPISTLE EPISTLE X. TO MY INGENIOUS AND WORTHY FRIEND WILLIAM LOWNDS, ESQ. AUTHOR OF THAT CELEBRATED TREATISE IN FOLIO, CALLED THE LAND-TAX BILL. WHEN HEN Poets print their works, the fcribbling crew Stick the bard o'er with bays, like Christmas-pew: Can meagre poetry fuch fame deferve? Can poetry, that only writes to starve ? If the blind Poet gain'd a long renown By finging every Grecian chief and town; Their feats, their cities, parifhes, and fhires. } Thy Thy copious preamble so smoothly runs, Taxes no more appear like legal duns; Lords, Knights, and Squires, th' Affeffor's power obey, Though forc'd to hear, we 're not oblig'd to read. Ev'n Button's wits are nought, compar'd to thee, Who ne'er were known or prais'd but o'er his tea; While thou through Britain's distant isle shalt spread, In every hundred and division read. Criticks in Claffics oft' interpolate, But every word of thine is fix'd as Fate. Some works come forth at morn, but die at night, In blazing fringes round a tallow-light. Some may perhaps to a whole week extend, But |