And that young life and quickening sense

Spring from his influence darted thence.

So from the middle of the world

The Sun's prolific rays are hurl'd :

'Tis from that feat he darts those beams,
Which quicken Earth with genial flames.
Dick, who thus long had paffive fat,
Here ftroak'd his chin, and cock'd his hat;
Then flapp'd his hand upon the board;

And thus the youth put in his word.

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345

Love's advocates, fweet Sir, would find him
A higher place than you affign'd him.

350

Love's advocates! Dick, who are thofe ?

The Poets, you may well fuppofe.

I'm forry, Sir, you have difcarded

The men with whom till now you herded.
Profe-men alone for private ends,

355

I thought, forfook their ancient friends.
In cor ftellavit, cries Lucretius;
If he may be allow'd to teach us.
The self-fame thing foft Ovid fays
(A proper judge in fuch a cafe).
Horace's phrafe is, torvet jecur;
And happy was that curious fpeaker.
Here Virgil too has plac'd this passion.
What fignifies too long quotation?

360

In Ode and Epic, plain the case is,

365

That Love holds one of these two places.
Dick, without paffion or reflection,

I'll ftrait demolish this objection.

First, Poets, all the world agrees,
Write half to profit, half to please.
Matter and figure they produce;
For garnish this, and that for use ;
And, in the ftructure of their feafts,

They seek to feed and please their guests:
But one may balk this good intent,
And take things otherwife than meant.
Thus, if you dine with my lord mayor,
Roaft-beef, and venifon, is your fare;
Thence you proceed to swan and bustard,
And perfevere in tart and cuftard:

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375

380

But tulip-leaves and lemon-peel

Help only to adorn the meal ;

And painted flags, fuperb and neat,
Proclaim you welcome to the treat.

The man of fenfe his meat devours ;

385

But only fmells the peel and flowers;

And he must be an idle dreamer,

Who leaves the pie, and gnaws the streamer.
That Cupid goes with bow and arrows,

And Venus keeps her coach and sparrows,
Is all but emblem, to acquaint one,
The fon is fharp, the mother wanton.
Such images have fometimes fhown
A myftic fenfe, but oftener none.
For who conceives, what bards devife,
That Heaven is plac'd in Celia's eyes;
Or where's the fenfe, direct and moral,
That teeth are pearl, or lips are coral ?

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395

Your

Your Horace owns, he various writ,

As wild or fober maggots bit:

And, where too much the Poet ranted,
The fage Philofopher recanted.

The wanton Odes he made to love.
Lucretius keeps a mighty pother
With Cupid and his fancy'd mother;
Calls her great Queen of Earth and Air,
Declares that Winds and Seas obey her;
And, while her honour he rehearses,
Implores her to infpire his verses.

Yet, free from this poetic madrefs,

400

405

410

Next page he fays, in fober sadness,
That she and all her Fellow-gods
Sit idling in their high abodes,
Regardless of this world below,

415

Our health or hanging, weal or woe;

Nor once disturb their heavenly spirits
With Scapin's cheats, or Cæfar's merits.
Nor e'er can Latin Poets prove
Where lies the real Seat of Love.
Jecur they burn, and Cor they pierce,
As either beft fupplies their verfe;
And, if folks afk the reafon for 't,
Say, one was long, and t' other fhort.
Thus, I prefume, the British Muse
May take the freedom strangers use.
In profe our property is greater:
Why should it then be lefs in metre?

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425

If

If Cupid throws a fingle dart,

We make him wound the lover's heart:

430

But, if he takes his bow and quiver;

'Tis fure, he must transfix the liver :
For rhyme with reafon may difpenfe;
And found has right to govern fense.

But let your friends in verfe fuppose,
What ne'er shall be allow'd in prose;
Anatomifts can make it clear,
The liver minds his own affair;
Kindly fupplies our public ufes;

435

And parts and strains the vital juices;

440

Still lays fome useful bile afide,

To tinge the chyle's infipid tide:

Elfe we should want both gibe and fatyr;
And all be burft with pure good-nature.

Now gall is bitter with a witness ;

445

And Love is all delight and sweetness.

My logic then has loft its aim,

If fweet and bitter be the fame :

And, he, methinks, is no great fcholar,

Who can mistake deure for choler.

450

The like may of the heart be faid;

Courage and terror there are bred.

All thofe, whofe hearts are loose and low,

Start, if they hear but the tattoo :

And mighty physical their fear is ;

435

For, foon as noife of combat near is,

Their heart, descending to their breeches,

Muft give their ftomach cruel twitches.

But

That this is eke the throne of Love.

Would Nature make one place the feat
Of fond defire, and fell debate?

Muft people only take delight in

Thofe hours, when they are tir'd with fighting?
And has no man, but who has kill'd

A father, right to get a child?
Thefe notions then I think but idle;
And Love fhall ftill poffefs the middle.
This truth more plainly to discover,
Suppose your Hero were a Lover.
Though he before had gall and rage,

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475

Which Death or Conqueft muft affwage!

4.80

He grows difpirited and low;

He hates the fight, and fhuns the foe,

In fcornful floth Achilles flept;

And for his wench, like Tall-boy, wept:

Nor would return to war and flaughter;

485

Till they brought back the Parfon's daughter.
Antonius fled from Actium's coaft,

Auguftus preffing, Afia lost :

His