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Excus'd, if in her cause we never stir, Pleas'd with the strength and beauty of the ravisher 2 Thus sings our bard with heat almost divine ; *Tis pity that his thought was not as strong as fine. Would it more justly did the case express, Or that its beauty, and its grace were less, (Thus a nymph sometimes we see, Who so charming seems to be, That, jealous of a soft surprise, We searce durst trust our eager eyes) Such a fallacious ambush to escape, It were but vain to plead a willing rape; A valiant son would be provok'd the more; A force we therefore must confess, but acted long A marriage since did intervene, [before; With all the solemn and the sacred scene: Loud was the Hymenean song ; The violated dame 'walk'd smilingly along, And in the midst of the most sacred dance, As if enamour'd of his sight, Often she cast a kind admiring glance On the bold struggier for delight; Who afterwards appear'd so moderate and cool, As if for public good alone he so desir'd to rule.

But, oh that this were all which we can urge Against a Roman of so great a soul | And that fair truth permitted us to purge His fact, of what appears so foul | Friendship, that sacred and sublimest thing ! The noblest quality, and chiefest good, (In this dull age scarce understood) [to sing. Inspires us with unusual warmth her injur'd rites Assist, ye angels! whose immortal bliss, Though more refin'd, chiefly consists in this. How plainly your bright thoughts to one another shine ! Oh! how ye all agree in harmony divine ! The race of mutual love with equal zeal ye run, A course, as far from any end, as when at first begun. Ye saw, and smil'd upon this matchless pair, Who still betwixt them did so many virtues share, Some which belong to peace, and some to strife, Those of a calm, and of an active life, That all the excellence of human-kind Concurr'd to make of both but one united mind, Which friendship did so fast and closely bind, Not the least cement could appear by which their souls were join'd. That tye which holds our mortal frame, Which poor unknowing we a soul and body name, Seems not a composition more divine, [shine. Or more abstruse, than all that does in friendship

From mighty Caesar and his boundless grace, Though Brutus, once at least, his life receiv'd ; Such obligations, though so high believ'd, Are yet but slight in such a case. Where friendship so possesses all the place, There is no room for gratitude, since he, Who so obliges, is more pleas'd than his sav'd friend can be. Just in the midst of all this noble heat, While their great hearts did both so kindly beat, That it amaz'd the lookers-on, And forc'd them to suspect a father and a son”;

" Rome. * Cesar was suspected to have begotten Brutus.

(Though here ev'n Nature's self still seem'd to be
From such a friendship unprovok'd to fall
Is horrid, yet I wish that fact were all [call
Which does with too much cause ungrateful Brutus

In coolest blood he laid a long design
Against his best and dearest friend;
Did ev'm his foes in zeal exceed,
To spirit others up to work so black a deed;
Himself the centre where they all did join.
Caesar, meantime, fearless, and fond of him,
Was as industrious all the while
To give such ample marks of fond csteem,
As made the gravest Romans smile
To see with how much ease love can the wise be-
guile. -
He, whom thus Brutus doom'd to bleed,
Did, setting his own race aside,
Nothing less for him provide,
Than in the world's great empire to succeed:
Which we are bound in justice to allow,
Is all-sufficient proof to show
That Brutus did not strike for his own sake:
And if, alas ! he fail'd, 'twas only by mistake,



I yield, I yield, and can no longer stay
My eager thoughts, that force thenselves away.
Sure none inspir'd (whose heat-transports them still
Above their reason, and beyond their will)
Cam firm against the strong impulse remain ;
Censure itself were not so sharp a pain.
Let vulgar minds submit to vulgar sway;
What Ignorance shall think, or Malice say,
To me are trifles; if the knowing few,
Who can see faults, but can sce beauties too,
Applaud that genius which themselves partake,
And spare the poet for the Muse's sake.
The Muse, who raises me from humble ground,
To view the vast and various world around;
How fast I mount' in what a wondrous way
I grow transported to this large survey!
I value Earth no more, and far below
Methinks I see the busy pigmies go.
My soul entranc'd is in a rapture brought
Above the common tracks of vulgar thought:
With fancy wing'd, I feel the purer air,
And with contempt look down on human care.
. Airy Ambition, ever soaring high,
Stands first expos'd to my censorious eye.
Behold some toiling up a slippery hill, -
Where, though arriv'd, they must be toiling still:
Some, with unsteady feet, just fallen to ground,
Others at top, whose heads are turning round.
To this high sphere it happens still that solne,
The most unfit, are forwardest to come;
Yet among these are princes forc'd to choose,
Or seek out such as would perhaps refuse.
Favour too great is safely plac'd on none,
And soon becomes a dragon or a drone,
Fither remiss and negligeut of all,
Or else imperious and tyrannical.

The Muse inspires me now to look again, And see a meaner sort of sordid men Doating on little heaps of yellow dust; For that despising honour, ease, and lust. Let other bards, expressing how it shines, Describe with envy what the miser finds; Only as heaps of dirt it seems to me, Where we such despicable vermin see, Who creep through filth a thousand crooked ways, Insensible of infamy or praise: Loaded with guilt, they still pursue their course, Not ev'n restrain'd by love or friendship's force. Not to enlarge on such an obvious thought, Behold their folly, which transcends their fault! Alas! their cares and cautions only tend To gain the means, and then to lose the end. Like heroes in romances, still in sight For mistresses that yield them no delight. This, of all vice, does most debase the mind, Gold is itself th’ allay to human-kind. Oh, happy times! when no such thing as coin E'er tempted friends to part, or foes to join ' Cattle or corm, among those harmless men, Was all their wealth, the gold and silver then : Corm was too bulky to corrupt a tribe, And bellowing herds would have betray'd the bribe. Ev’n traffic now is intercourse of ill, And every wind brings a new mischief still ; By trade we flourish in our leaves and fruit, But avarice and excess devour the root. Thus far the Muse unwillingly has been Fix'd on the dull, less happy sorts of sin; But now, more pleas'd, she views the different ways Of luxury, and all its charms surveys. Dear Luxury! thou soft, but sure deceit! Rise of the mean, and ruin of the great! Thou sure presage of ill-approaching fates, The bane of empires, and the change of states! Armies in vain resist thy mighty power; Not the worst conduct would confound them more. Thus Rome herself, while o'er the world she flew, And did by virtue all that world subdue, Was by her own victorious arms oppress'd, And catch'd infection from the conquer'd East; Whence all those vices came, which soon devour The best foundations of renown and power. But oh what need have we abroad to roam, Who feel too much the sad effects at home, Of wild excess! which we so plainly find Ilecays the body, and impairs the mind. But yet grave fops must not presume from hence To slight the sacred pleasures of the sense: Our appetites are Nature's laws, and given Under the broad authentic seal of Heaven. Let pedants wrangle, and let bigots fight, To put restraint on innocent delight, But Heaven and Nature's always in the right; They would not draw poor wretched mortals in, Or give desires that shall be doom'd for sin. Yet, that in height of harmless joy we may Last to old age, and never lose a day, Amidst our pleasures we ourselves should spare, And manage all with temperance and care. The gods forbid but we sometimes may steep Our joys in wine, and lull our cares asleep : It raises Nature, ripens seeds of worth, As moistening pictures calls the colours forth; But if the varnish we too oft apply, Alas! like colours, we grow faint and die.

Hold, hold, impetuous Muse—s would restrain
Her over-eager heat, but all in vain;
Abandon'd to delights, she longs to rove;
I check'd her here, and now she flics to love;
Shows me some rural nymph, by shepherd chas'd,
Soon overtaken, and as soon embrac'd :
The grass by her, as she by him, is press'd;
For shame, my Muse, let fancy guess the rest:
At such a point fancy can never stay,
But flies beyond whatever you can say.
Behold the silent shades, the amorous grove,
The dear delights, the very act of Love.
This is his lowest sphere, his country scene,
Where Love is humble, and his fare but mean ;
Yet springing up without the help of art,
Leaves a sincerer relish in the heart,
More healthfully, though not so finely fed,
And better thrives than where more nicely bred.
But 'tis in courts where most he makes a show,
And, high enthron'd, governs the world below ;
For though in histories learn'd ignorance
Attributes all to cunning or to chance,
Love will in those disguises often smile,
And knows the cause was kindness all the whike.
What story, place, or person, cannot prove
The boundless influence of mighty Love?
Where'er the Sun can vigorous heat inspire,
Both sexes glow, and languish with desire.
The weary'd swain, fast in the arms of sleep,
Love can awake, and often sighing keep;
And busy gown-men, by fond love disguis'd,
Will leisure find to make themselves despis'd.
The proudest kings submit to Beauty's sway;
Beauty itself, a greater prince than they,
Lies sometimes languishing with all its pride
By a belov'd, though fickle lover's side.
I mean to slight the soft enchanting charm,
But, oh! my head and heart are both too warm.
I doat on woman-kind with all their faults,
Love turns my satire into softest thoughts;
Of all that passion which our peace destroys
Instead of mischief, I describe the joys.
But short will be his reign (I fear too short),
And present cares shall be my future sport.
Then Love's bright torch put out, his arrows broke,
Loose from kind chains,and from th' engaging yoke,
To all fond thoughts I'll sing such counter-charms,
The fair shall listen in their lovers arms.
Now the enthusiastic fit is spent,
I feel my weakness, and too late repent.
As they who walk in dreams oft climb too high
For sense to follow with a waking eye;
And in such wild attempts are blindly bold, "
Which afterwards they tremble to behold :
So I review these sallies of my pen,
And modest Reason is return’d again;
My confidence I curse, my fate accuse,
Scarce hold from censuring the sacred Muse.
No wretched poet of the railing pit,
No critic curs'd with the wrong side of wit,
Is more severe from ignorance and spite,
Than I with judgment against all I write,


Such is the mode of these censorious days, The art is lost of knowing how to praise;

Poets are envious now, and fools alone Admire at wit, because themselves have none. Yet whatsoe'er is by vain crities thought, Praising is harder much than finding fault; In homely pieces ev'n the Dutch excel, Italians only can draw beauty well. As strings, alike wound up, so equal prove, That one resounding makes the other move; Frou, such a cause our satires please so much, We sympathize with each ill-natur'd touch; And as the sharp infection spreads about, The reader's malice helps the writer out. To blame, is easy; to commend, is bold,; Yet, if the Muse inspires it, who can hold : To merit we arebound to give applause, Content to suffer in so just a cause. While in dark ignorance welay, afraid Of fancies, ghosts, and every empty shade, Great Hobbes appeard, and by plain reason's light Put such fantastic forms to shameful flight. Fond is their fear, who think men needs must be To vice enslav'd, if from vain terrours free ; The wise and good morality will guide, And superstition all the world beside. In other authors, though the thought be good, Tis not sometimes so easily understood; That jewel oft’ unpolish'd has remain'd; Some words should be left out, and some explain'd; So that in search of sense, we either stray, Or else grow weary in so rough a way. But here sweet eloquence does always smile, In such a choice, yet unaffected style, As must both knowledge, and delight impart, The force of reason, with the flowers of art; Clear as a beautiful transparent skin, Which never hides the blood, yet holds it in : Like a delicious stream it ever ran, As smooth as woman, but as strong as man. Bacon himself, whose universal wit Poes admiration through the world beget, Scarce more his age's ornament is thought, Or greater credit to his country brought. While Fame is young, too weak to fly away, Malice pursues her, like some bird of prey; But once on wing, then all the quarreis cease; Envy herself is glad to be at peace, Gives over, weary'd with so high a flight, Above her reach, and scarce within her sight. Hobbes, to this happy pitch arriv'd at last, Might have look'd down with pride on dangers past: But such the frailty is of human-kind, Men toil for Fame, which no man lives to find; Long ripening under ground this China lies; Fame bears no fruit, till the vain planter dies. Thus Nature, tir'd with his unusual length Of life, which put her to her utmost strength, Such stock of wit unable to supply, To spare herself, was glad to let hin die.

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For how could such a wretch succeed, But that, alas, it was decreed


Menir they hate, and wit they slight;
They neither act, nor reason right,
And nothing mind but pence.
Unskilful they victorious are,
Conduct a kingdom without care,
A council without sense.
So Moses once and Joshua,
And that virago Debora,
Bestrid poor Israel:
Like reverence pay to these ! for who
Could ride a nation as they do,
Without a miracle?


Good angels snatch'd him eagerly on high;
Joyful they flew, singing and soaring through the

sky, teachioi. new-fledg'd soul to fly; While we, alas ! lamenting tie. He went musing all along, Composing new their heavenly song: A while his skilful notes loud hallelujahs drown'd; But soon they ceas'd their own, to catch his pleasing sound. David himself improv'd the harmony, David, in sacred story so renown'd No less for music, than for poetry ! Genius sublime in either art! / Crown'd with applause surpassing all desert to A man just after God's own heart | lf human cares arc lawful to the blest, Already settled in eternal rest; Needs must he wish, that Purcell only might Have liv'd to set what he vouchsaf'd to write; For, sure, the noble thirst of fame With the frail body never dies; But with the soul ascends the skies, From whence at first it came. 'Tis sure no little proof we have That part of us survives the grave, And in our fame below still bears a share: Why is the future else so much our care, Ev’n in our latest moment of despair? And death despis'd for fame by all the wise and brave 2 Oh, all ye blest harmonious choir' Who Power Almighty only love, and only that admire"? Dook down with pity from your peaceful bower, On this sad isle perplex’d, And ever, ever vex'd With anxious care of trifles, wealth and power. In our rough inshds due reverence infuse For sweet melodious sounds, and each harmonious Muse. Music exalts unan's nature, and inspires

High elevated thoughts, or gentle, kind desires, H


Our morning's gay and shining;
The days our joys declare ;

At evening no repining;
And night's all void of care.

A fond transported mother
Was often heard to cry,

Oh, where is such an other
So bless d by Heaven as I?

A child at first was wanting; Now such a son is sent,

As parents most lamenting In him would find content.

A child of whom kind Heaven
Not only hope bestows,

But has already given
Him all our hopes propose.

The happy sire's possessing His share in such a boy,

Adds still a greater blessing To all my other joy.

But ah! this shiny weather
Became too hot at last;

Black clouds began to gather,
And all the sky o'ercast.

So fierce a fever rages,
We all lie drown'd in tears;

And dismal sad presages
Come thundering in our ears.

The doubts that made us languish
Did worse, far worse than kill.

Yet, oh, with all their anguish,
Would we had doubted still !

But why so much digression, This fatal loss to show?

Alas, there's no expression Can tell a parent's woe."


Wrrh age decay'd, with courts and business tir’d,
Caring for nothing but what ease requir'd,
Too serious now a wanton Muse to court,
And from the critics safe arriv'd in port;
I little thought of lanching forth again,
Amidst adventurous rovers of the pen;
And, after some small undeserv'd success,
Thus hazarding at last to make it less.
Encouniums suit not this censorious time,
Itself a subject for satiric rhyme;
Ignorance honour'd, Wit and Worth defam'd,
Folly triumphant, and ev'n Homer blam'd.
But to this genius, join'd with so much art,
Such various learning mix'd in every part,
Poets are bound a loud applause to pay;
Apollo bids it, and they must obey.
And yet so wondrous, so sublime a thing,
As the great Hiad, scarce could make me sing;
Except I justly could at once commend
A good companion, and as firm a friend.

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Came Blackmore, and cry'd, “Look, all these are my lays, But at present I beg you'd but read my Essays.”

Lampooners and critics rush'd in like a tide,
Stern Dennis and Gildon came first side-by side.
Apollo confess'd that their lashes had stings,
But beadles and hangmen were never chose kings.

Steele long had so cunningly manag'd the town,
He could not be blam'd for expecting the crown;
Apollo demurr'd as to granting his wish,
But wish'd him good luck in his project of fish.

Lame Congreve, unable such things to endure,
Of Apollo begg'd either a crown or a cure;
To refuse such a writer, Apollo was loth,
And almost inclin'd to have granted him both.

When Buckingham came, he scarce car'd to be

seen, Till Phoebus desir'd his old friend to walkin; But a laureat pecr had never been known, The commoners claim'd that place as their own.

Yet if the kind god had been ne'er so inclin'd
To break an old rule, yet he well knew his mind,
Who of such preferment would only make sport,
And laugh'd at all suitors for places at court.

Notwithstanding this law, yet Lansdowne was nam'd,
But Apollo with kindness his indolence blam’d,
And said he would choose him, but that he should
An employment of trouble he never could bear.

A prelate” for wit and for cloquence fam'd,

Apollo soon miss'd, and he needs not be nam'd;

Since, amidst a whole bench, of which some are so bright,

No one of then shines so learn’d and polite.

To Shippen, Apollo was cold with respect,
Since he for the state could the Muses neglect :
But said, in a greater assembly he shin'd,
And places were things he had ever declin'd.

Trapp, Young, and Vanbrugh, expected reward,
For soune things writ well ; but Apollo declar'd,
That one was too flat, the other too rough,
And the third sure already had places enough.

Pert Budrell came next, and, demanding the bays, said, “Those works must be good, which had Addison's praise;” But Apollo reply'd, “Child Eustace, 'tis known, Most authors will praise whatsoever's their own.”

When Philips came forth, as starch as a Quaker,
Whose simple profession's a Pastoral-maker;
Apollo advis'd him from playhouse to keep,
And pipe to nought else but his dog and his sheep.

Hughes, Fenton, and Gay, came last in the train,

Too modest to ask for the crown they would gain:

Phaebus thought them too bashful, and said they would need

More boldness, if ever they hop'd to succeed.

Apollo, now driven to a cursed quandary, was wishing for Swift, or the fam'd Lady Mary: Nay, had honest Tom Southerne but been within call— But at last he grew wanton, and laugh'd at them all:

* Dr. Atterbury, bishop of Rochester.

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Since in vain our parsons teach,
Hear, for once, a poet preach.
Vice has lost its very name,
Skill and cozenage thought the same;
Only playing well the game.
Foul contrivances we see
Call'd but ingenuity: - w
Ample fortunes often made
Out of frauds in every trade,
Which an aukward child afford
Enough to wed the greatest lord.
The miser starves to raise a son,
But, if once the fool is gone,
Years of thrift scarce serve a day,
Rake-hell squanders all away.
Husbands seeking for a place,
Or toiling for their pay;
While their wives undo their race
By petticoats and play:
Breeding boys to drink and dice, ...
Carrying girls to comedies,
Where mamma's intrigues are shown,
Which ere long will be their own.
Having first at sermon slept,
Tedious day is weekly kept
By worse hypocrites than men,
Till Monday comes to cheat again.
Ev’n among the noblest-born,
Moral virtue is a scorn;
Gratitude, but rare at best,
And fidelity a jest.
All our wit but party-mocks,
All our wisdom raising stocks :
Counted folly to defend
Sinking side, or falling friend.
Long an officer may serve,
Prais'd and wounded, he may starve:
No receipt, to make him rise,
Like inventing loyal lies.
We, whose ancestors have shin'd
In arts of peace, and fields of fame,
To ill and idleness inclin'd,
Now are grown a public shaine.

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