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Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear, (A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear) Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilsome days, 15 Still hear thy Parnelle in his living lays, Who, careless now of Int'rest, Fame, or Fate, Perhaps forgets that OXFORD e'er was great; Or deeming meanest what we greatest call, Beholds thee glorious only in thy Fall.

And sure, if aught below the seats divine Can touch Immortals, 'tis a Soul like thine: A Soul fupreme, in each hard instance try'd, Above all Pain, all Passion, and all Pride, The rage of Pow'r, the blaft of public breath, 25 The lust of Lucre, and the dread of Death.

In vain to Deserts thy retreat is made; The Mufe attends thee to thy silent shade: 'Tis hers, the brave man's latest steps to trace, Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace. 30 When Int'rest calls off all her sneaking train, And all th'oblig'd desert, and all the vain; She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell, When the last ling’ring friend has bid farewell.

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Ev'n now, she shades thy Ev'ning-walk with bays,
(No hireling she, no prostitute to praise)
Ev'n now, observant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm Sun-set of thy various Day,
Thro' Fortune's cloud one truly great can see,
Nor fears to tell, that MORTIMER is he. 40

E PIST L E T. JAMES CRAGGS, Efq. SECRETARY of STAT É.

Soul as full of Worth, as void of Pride, A

Which nothing seeks to Thew, or needs

to hide, Which nor to Guilt nor Fear, its Caution owes, And boasts a Warmth that from no Passion flows. A Face untaught to feign; a judging Eye, 5 That darts severe upon a rising Lye, And strikes a blush thro' frontless Flattery. All this thou wert; and being this before, Know, Kings and Fortune cannot make thee more. Then scorn to gain a Friend by servile ways, 10 Nor wish to lose a Foe these Virtues raise; But candid, free, sincere, as you began, Proceed-a Minister, but still a Man. Be not (exalted to whate'er degree) Alham’d of any Friend, not ev’n of Me: 15 The Patriot's plain, but untrod, path pursue ; If not, 'tis I must be asham'd of You.

}

NOT E s.
Secretary of State] In the Year 1720.

P.

E PIST L E

To Mr. JERVAS,

With Mr. DRYDEN's Translation of

Fre's no y's Art of Painting.

T

HIS Verse be thine, my friend, nor thou

refuse This, from no venal or ungrateful Muse. Whether thy hand strike out some free design, Where Life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line; Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass, 5 And from the canvass call the mimic face: Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire Fresnoy's close Art, and Dryden's native Fire : And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and fame, So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name; 10 Like them to shine thro' long succeeding age, So just thy skill, so regular my rage.

NOTE s. Epile 10 Mr. Jervas.} This Epistle, and the two following, were written some years before the rest, and originally printed

P.

in 1717

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Smit with the love of Sister-Arts we came, And met congenial, mingling flame with flame; Like friendly colours found them both unite, 15 And each from each contract new strength and

light. How oft' in pleasing tasks we wear the day, While summer-suns roll unperceiv'd away? How oft our slowly-growing works impart, While Images reflect from art to art? How oft review; each finding like a friend Something to blame, and something to commend? What flatt'ring scenes our wand'ring fancy

wrought, Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought! Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly, 25 Fir'd with Ideas of fair Italy. With thee, on Raphael's Monument I mourn, Or wait inspiring Dreams at Maro's Urn: With thee repose, where Tully once was laid, Or seek fome Ruin's formidable shade :

30 While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view, And builds imaginary Rome a-new, Here thy well-study'd marbles fix our eye ; A fading Fresco here demands a figh: Each heav'nly piece unwearied we compare, 35 Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air,

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