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And, while, her honour he rehearses,
Implores her to infpire bis verses.
Yet free from this poetic madness,
Next page he says in sober sadness,
That she and all her fellow-gods
Sit idling in their high abodes,
Regardless of this world below,
Our health or hanging, weal or woe;
Nor once disturb their heavenly fpirits
With Scapin's cheats, or Caesar'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 best supplies their verse: And, if folks ask the reason for't, Say, one was long, and t'other short. Thus, I presume, the British muse, May take the freedom strangers use. In profe our property is greater; Why should it then be less in metre? If Cupid throws a single dart; We make him wound the lover's heart: But if he takes his bow and quiver ; 'Tis sure he must transfix the liver : For rhime with reason may difpenfe ; And found has right to govern sense.
But let your friends in verse suppose, What ne'er shall be allow'd in prose ; Anatomists can make it clear, The Liver minds his own affair : Kindly supplies our public uses; And parts and strains the rital juices ;
Still lay fome useful bile afide,
To tinge the chyle's insipid tide ;
Else we should want both gibe and satire;
And all be burst with pure good nature.
Now gall is bitter with a witness ;
And love is all delight and sweetness ;
My Logic then has lost its aim,
If sweet and bitter be the fame :
And, he, methinks, is no great scholar,
Who can mistake deGre for choler,
The like may of the Heart be faid;
Courage and terror there are bred.
All those, whose hearts are loose and low,
Start, if they hear but the Tat too ;
And mighty physical their fear is :
For, soon as noise of combat near is,
Their hearts descending to their breeches,
Must give their stomach cruel twitches.
But heroes who o'ercome or die,
Have their hearts hung extremely high :
The strings of which, in battles heat,
Against their very Corsets beat ;
Keep time with their own trumpet's measure ;
And yield’em most excessive pleasure.
Now if tis chiefly in the heart,
That courage does itself exert;
'Twill be prodigious hard to prove,
That this is eke the throne of love.
Would nature make one place the seat
Of fond delire, and fell debate ?
Most people only take delight in
Those hours, when they are tir'd with fighting!
And has no man, but who has kill'd
A father, right to get a child?
These notions then I think but idle :
And love shall still poffess the middle.
This truth more plainly to discover,
Suppose your hero were a lover,
Though he before had.gall and rage,
Which death, or conqueft must assuage ;
He grows dispirited and low :
He hates the fight, and shuns the foe.
In scornful foth Achilles Nept;
And for his wench, like Tall-boy, wept:
Nor would return to war and flaughter;
Till they brought back the parson's daughter. -
Antonius fled from Actium's coast,
A uguftus presling, Afia loft.
His fails by. Cupid's hand unfurld,
To keep the fair, he gave the world.
Edward our fourth, rever'd and crown'd; Vig'rous in youth, in arms renown'd; While England's voice, and Warwick's care Design'd him Gallia's beauteous heir ; . Chang'd peace and pow'r for rage and wars, Only to dry one widow's tears.
France's fourth Henry we may see,
A servant to the fair d’Estree ;
When quitting Coutras profp'rous field,
And fortune taught at length to yield,
He from his guard and midnight tent,
Disguis'd o'er hills and vallies went,
To wanton with the sprightly dame;
And in his pleasure loft his fame.
Bold is the critic, who dares prove, .
These heroes were no friends to love;
And bolder he, who dares aver,
That they were enemies to war.
Yei, when their thought should, now or never,
Have rais'd their Heart, or fir'd their Liver;
Fond Alma to chese parts was gone,
Which Love more justly calls his own.
Examples I could cite you more ;
But be contented with these four:
For when one's proofs are aptly chosen;
Four are as valid as four dozen.
One came from Greece, and one from Rome;
The other two grew nearer home.
For some in ancient books delight,
Others prefer what moderns write ;
Now I should be extremely loth,
Not to be thought expert in both.
UT shall we take the Mufe abroad,
To drop her idly on the road?
And leave our subject in the middle ;
As Butler did his bear and fiddle?
Yet he, consummate master, knew,
When to recede, and where pursue:
His noble negligences teach,
What other toils despair to reach.
He, perfect dancer, climbs the rope,
And balances your fear and hope :
If after some distinguish'd leap,
He drops his pole, and seems to lip;
Straight gath’ring all his active strength,
He rises higher half his length.
With wonder you approve his flight;
And owe your pleasure to your fright.
But like poor Andrew I advance,
False mimic of my malter's dance :
Around the cord a while I sprawl;
And thence, though low, in earnest fall.
My preface tells you, I digress'd :
He's half abfolv'd who has confess'd.
I like, quoth Dick, your Simile , And in return, take two from me.