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, And thus the youth put in his word. 340 345 Love's advocates, fweet Sir, would find 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. 355 I thought, forfook their ancient friends. 360 In Ode and Epic, plain the case is, 365 That Love holds one of these two places. I'll ftrait demolish this objection. First, Poets, all the world agrees, They seek to feed and please their guests: 370 375 380 But tulip-leaves and lemon-peel Help only to adorn the meal ; And painted flags, fuperb and neat, 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. And Venus keeps her coach and sparrows, 390 395 Your Your Horace owns, he various writ, As wild or fober maggots bit: And, where too much the Poet ranted, The wanton Odes he made to love. Yet, free from this poetic madrefs, 400 405 410 Next page he fays, in fober sadness, 415 Our health or hanging, weal or woe; Nor once disturb their heavenly spirits 420 425 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 : But let your friends in verfe fuppose, 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; 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 Muft people only take delight in Thofe hours, when they are tir'd with fighting? A father, right to get a child? 470 475 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. Auguftus preffing, Afia lost : His |