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“ You'd write as smooth again on glass,

“ And run, on ivory, so glib, “ As not to stick at fool or ass,

“ Nor stop at Flattery or Fib. " Athenian Queen! and sober charms !

“ I tell you, fool, there 's nothing in 't : “ 'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms ;

« In Dryden's Virgil see the print. « Come, if you 'll be a quiet soul,

“ That dares tell neither Truth nor Lies, “ I'll list you in the harmless roll

“Of those that sing of these poor eyes."

E P I S

T

L E

TO

ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD,

AND EARL MORTIMER,

SENT to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. Parnell's Poems

published by our Author, after the said Earl's Imprisonment in the Tower, and Retreat into the Coun

try, in the year 1721. S

UCH were the notes thy once-lov’d Poet sung,

Till Death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh just beheld, and loft! admir'd, and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd! Blest in each science, blest in every strain !

5 Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear-in vain !

For him, thou oft haft bid the World attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend ;
For Swift and him, despis’d the farce of state,
The fober follies of the wife and great ;
Dextrous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleas’d to 'scape from Flattery to Wit.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A figh the absent claims, the dead a tear)
Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilfome days, 15
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of Interest, Fame, or Fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e’er was great ;

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Or,

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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 Supreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all Pain, and Passion, and all Pride,
The rage of Power, the blast of public breath,
The luft of Lucre, and the dread of Death.

In vain to Deserts thy retreat is made;
The Muse attends thee to thy filent shade :
'Tis hers, the brave man's latest fteps to trace,
Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace.
When Interest calls off all her sneaking trains
And all th' oblig'd defert, and all the vain;
She waits, or to the Scaffold, or the cell,
When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.

The fhades thy Evening-walk with baby's
(No hireling the, no protirute to praile);
Ev'n now, observant of the parring ray,
Eyes the calm Sun-set of thy various Day,
Through Fortune's cloud one truly great can see,
Nor fears to tell that MORTIMER is ke:

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Ev'n now,

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EPISTLE E P I S T L E

TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

SECRETARY OF STATE IN THE YEAR 1720.

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A

Soul as full of Worth, as void of Pride,

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 untanght to feign ; a judging Eye, 5 That darts severe upon a riling Lie, And strikes a blush through frontless Flattery. All this thou went ; and being this before, Know, Kings and Fortune cannot make thee more. Then scorn to gain a Friends by servile ways, Nor wish to lose a Foe these Virtucs raise'; But candid, free, sincere, as you began, Proceed--a Minister, but still a Man. Be not (exalted to whate'er degree) Afham'd of any Friend, not ev'n of Me:

I'S The Patriot's plain, but untrod, path pursue ; If not, 'tis I must be afhamid of You.

IO

EPISTLE

E P PIS TL

L E
TO MR. JERVAS,

With Mr. DRYDEN's Translation of FRESNOY's

Art of Painting.

THIS Epistle, and the two following, were written

fome years before the rest, and originally printed

in 1717

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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 every line; Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass, S And from the canvas 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 joind our name; Like them to shine through long succeeding age, So just thy skill, so regular my rage.

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

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