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Here, laft of Britons! let your names be read:
Are none, none living? let me praise the dead;
And for that caufe which made your fathers fhine,
Fall by the votes of their degen'rate line.

F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began,
And write next winter more Effays on Man.

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To Robert Earl of Oxford and Lord Mortimer*,

SUCH

were the notes thy once lov'd poet fung,
Till death untimely ftopp'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh, just beheld and loft! admir'd and mourn'd!
With fofteft manners, gentleft arts, adorn'd!
Blefs'd in each fcience! blefs'd in ev'ry ftrain!
Dear to the Mufe! to Harley dear—in vain !

For him thou oft' haft bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statefiman in the friend;
For Swift and him despis'd the farce of state,
The fober follies of the wife and great;
Dext'rous the craving, fawning, crowd to quit,
And pleas'd to 'fcape from flattery to wit.

Abient or dead, ftill let a friend be dear,
(A figh the abfent claims, the dead a tear,)
Recall thofe nights that clos'd thy toillome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of int'reft, 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 fure if aught below the feats divine,
Can touch immortals, 'tis a foul like thine;
A feul fupreme, in each hard inftance try'd,
Above all pain, all paifion, and all pride,
The rage of pow'r, the bl..st of public breath,
The luft of lucre, and the dread of death.

In vain to defarts thy retreat is made,
The Mufe attends thee to thy filent fhade:
'Tis her's the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Rejudge his acts, and dignify difgrace.
When Int'reft calls off all her fneaking train,
And all th' oblig'd defert, and all the vain,

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Sent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. Farrell's Poems, published by our Authe after the faid Earl's imprifcument in the ower, and retreat into the coun y, the year 1721.

She waits, or to the fcaff ld or the cell,
When the last ling'ring friend has bid farewell.
Ev'n now the shades thy ev'ning walk with bays,
(No hireling fhe, no prostitute to praife,)
Ev'n now, obfervant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm funfet of thy various day;
Thro' Fortune's cloud one truly great can see,
Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he.

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To James Craggs, Efq. Secretary of State, 1720. SOUL as full of worth as void of pride,

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Which nothing feeks to fhew, or needs to hide, Which nor to guilt nor fear its caution owes, And boasts a warmth that from no paffion flows. A face untaught to feign; a judging eye, That darts fevere upon a rifing lie, And ftrikes a blush thro' frontless flattery. All this thou wert; and being this before, Know kings and fortune cannot make thee more. Then fcorn to gain a friend by fervile ways, Nor with to lofe a foe thefe virtues raife; But candid, free, fincere, as you began, Proceed a minifter, but ftill a man. Be not (exalted to whate'er degree) Afham'd of any friend, not ev'n of me: The patriot's plain but untrod path pursue; If not, 'tis I must be afham'd of you.

EPISTLE III.

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To Mr. Jervas, with Mr. Dryden's Tranflation of
Frefnoy's Art of Pain ing*.

THIS verfe be thi e, my Friend! nor thou refuse
This from no venal or ungrateful Mule.

Whether thy hand ftrike out fome free defign,
Where life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line,
Or b.end in beauteous tints the colour'd mais,
And from the canvas call the mimic face;

Read

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Ta's Erifte, and the two following, we.e written fome years before the .eit,

ally printed i 1717.

Read thefe inftructive leaves, in which confpire,
Frefnoy's clofe art, and Dryden's native fire
And reading with, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our ftudies, and fo join'd our name;
Like them to fhine thro' long fucceeding age;
So just thy fkill, fo regular my rage.

Smit with the love of fifter arts we came, And met congenial, mingling flame with flame; Like friendly colours found them both unite, And each from each contract new ftrength and light. How oft' in pleafing tasks we wear the day, While fummer's-funs roll unperceiv'd away! How oft' our flowly-growing works impart, While images reflect from art to art!

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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 rifing to our thought!
Together o'er the Alps, methinks we fly,
Fir'd with ideas of fair Italy.

With thee on Raphael's monument I mourn,
Or wait infpiring dreams at Maro's urn:
With thee repofe where Tully once was laid,
Or feek fome ruin's formidable fhade.
While Fancy brings the vanifh'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome a.new,
Here thy well-tudied marbles fix our eye,
A fading frefco here demands a figh :
Each heav'nly piece unweary'd we compare,
Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air,
Carracci's ftrength, Correggio's fofter line,
Paulo's free ftroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finifh'd with illuftrious toil appears
This fmall well-polish'd gem, the work of years*
Yet ftill how faint by precept is expreft
The living image in the painter's breast?
Thence endless ftreams of fair ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;

Frefnoy employed above 20 years in finishing his Poem.

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Thence

Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, fupplies
An Angel's fweetnefs, or Bridgewater's eyes.
Mufe at that name thy facred forrow shed,
Thofe tears eternal that embalm the dead;
Call round her tomb each object of defire,
Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire ;
Bid her be all that cheers or foftens life,
The tender fifter, daughter, friend, and wife;
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore,
Then view this marble, and be vain no more!
Yet ftill her charms in breathing paint engage,
Her modeft cheek fhall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flow'r! that ev'ry feafon fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts furprise,
And other beauties envy Worfley's eyes;
Each pleafing Blount fhall endlefs fimiles bestow,
And foft Belinda's blufh for ever glow.

Oh! lasting as those colours may they shine!
Free as thy ftroke, yet faultlefs as thy line;
New graces yearly like thy works display,
Soft without weaknefs, without glaring gay;
Led by fome rule that guides, but not contrains,
And finish'd more thro' happiness than pains
The kindred arts fhall in their praise confpire,
One dip the pencil, and one ftring the lyre.
Yet fhould the Graces all thy figures place,
And breathe an air divine on ev'ry face;
Yet fhould the Mufes bid my numbers roll
Strong as their charms, and gentle as their foul;
With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie,
And there be fung till Granville's Myra die:
Alas! how little from the grave we claim !
Thou but preferv'it a face, and I a name,

EPISTLE IV.

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To Mifs Blount, with the Works of Voiture, 1717.

thefe

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IN gay thoughts the Loves and Graces fhine,

And all the writer lives in ev'ry line;

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