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They count that woman's prudence little,
Who fets her heart on things fo brittle.
But are those wife-men's inclinations

Fixt on more strong, more fure foundations ?
If all that 's frail we must defpife,

No human view or fcheme is wife.
Are not Ambition's hopes as weak?
They fwell like bubbles, fhine, and break.
A Courtier's promife is fo flight,

'Tis made at noon, and broke at night.
What pleasure 's fure? The Mifs you keep
Breaks both your fortune and your sleep.
The man who loves a country-life
Breaks all the comforts of his wife;
And, if he quit his farm and plough,
His wife in town may break her vow.
Love, Laura, love, while youth is warm,
For each new winter breaks a charm;
And woman's not like china fold,
But cheaper grows in growing old;
Then quickly chuse the prudent part,
Or else you break a faithful heart.






"Ipfa varietate tentamus efficere ut alia aliis, quædam "fortaffe omnibus placeant."


PLIN. Epift.

S when some skilful cook, to please each guest,
Would in one mixture comprehend a feaft,

With due proportion and judicious care

He fills his difh with different forts of fare,
Fishes and fowls deliciously unite,

To feast at once the tafte, the smell, and fight.
So, Bernard, must a Miscellany be
Compounded of all kinds of poetry;

The Mufes' olio, which all taftes may fit,
And treat each reader with his darling wit.

Would'st thou for Mifcellanies raise thy fame,
And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name,
Let all the Mufes in the piece confpire;

The lyric bard must strike th' harmonious lyre;
Heroic strains muft here and there be found,
And nervous sense be fung in lofty found;
Let elegy in moving numbers flow,
And fill fome pages with melodious woe;


Let not your amorous fongs too numerous prove,

Nor glut thy reader with abundant love;
Satire muft interfere, whofe pointed rage
May lafh the madness of a vicious age;
Satire the Mufe that never fails to hit,
For if there's fcandal, to be fure there's wit.
Tire not our patience with Pindaric lays,
Thofe fwell the piece, but very rarely please;
Let fhort-breath'd epigram its force confine,
And strike at follies in a fingle line.

Tranflations fhould throughout the work be fown,
And Homer's godlike Muse be made our own;
Horace in useful numbers fhould be fung,
And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue.
Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard difdain,

And at her door in melting notes complain;
His tender accents pitying virgins move,
And charm the listening ear with tales of love.
Let every claffic in the volume fhine,
And each contribute to thy great defign;
Through various fubjects let the reader range,
And raife his fancy with a grateful change.
Variety 's the fource of joy below,

From whence ftill fresh revolving pleasures flow.
In books and love, the mind one end pursues,
And only change th' expiring flame renews.

Where Buckingham will condefcend to give,
That honour'd piece to diftant times muft live;
When noble Sheffield ftrikes the trembling firings,
The little Loves rejoice, and clap their wings;


Anacreon lives, they cry, th' harmonious fwain
Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted strain,
'Tis he-our loft Anacreon lives again.
But, when th' illuftrious poet foars above
The fportive revels of the God of Love,
Like Maro's Muse, he takes a loftier flight,
And towers beyond the wondering Cupid's fight.
If thou would'st have thy volume ftand the teft,
And, of all others be reputed beft,

Let Congreve teach the liftening groves to mourn,
As when he wept o'er fair Pastora's urn.

Let Prior's Mufe with foftening accents move,
Soft as, the strains of conftant Emma's love:
Or let his fancy chufe fome jovial theme,
As when he told Hans Carvel's jealous dream;
Prior th' admiring reader entertains


With Chaucer's humour, and with Spenser's ftrains.
Waller in Granville lives; when Mira fings,
With Waller's hand he ftrikes the founding ftrings,
With fprightly turns his noble genius fhines,
And manly fense adorns his easy lines.

On Addifon's sweet lays attention waits,
And filence guards the place while he repeats
His Mufe alike on every fubject charms,
Whether the paints the god of love, or arms:
In him pathetic Ovid fings again,

And Homer's Iliad fhines in his Campaign..
Whenever Garth fhall raife his fprightly song,
Senfe flows in eafy numbers from his tongue;
Great Phoebus in his learned fon we fee,

Alike in phyfic, as in



When Pope's harmonious Mufe with pleasure roves Amidst the plains, the murmuring streams, and groves, Attentive Echo, pleas'd to hear his fongs,

Through the glad fhade each warbling note prolongs;
His various numbers charm our ravish'd ears,
His fteady judgement far out-fhoots his years,
And early in the youth the god appears.

From thefe fuccefsful bards collect thy ftrains;
And praife with profit shall reward thy pains :
Then, while calves-leather-binding bears the fway,
And sheep-skin to its fleeker glofs gives way;
While neat old Elzevir is reckon'd better

Then Pirate Hill's brown sheets and scurvy letter;
While print-admirers careful Aldus chuse,
Before John Morphew, or the weekly news;
So long shall live thy praise in books of fame,
And Tonfon yield to Lintott's lofty name.



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