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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, 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 flattering scenes our wandering fancy
wrought, Rome's pompous glories rising 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 inspiring dreams at Maro's urn: With thee repose where Tully once was laid, Or seek some ruin's formidable shade, While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view, And builds imaginary Rome anew. Here thy well studied marbles fix our eye; A fading fresco here demands a sigh ; Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare, Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air, Carracci's strength, Correggio's softer line, Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finish'd with illustrious toil appears This small well polish'd gem, the work of years ! Yet still how faint by precept is exprest The living image in the painter's breast ! Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow, Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow; Thence beauty, waking all her forms, supplies An angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes.
Muse! at that name thy sacred sorrows shed
frame inform’d with purer fire;
Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage,
O, lasting as those colours may they shine, Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line;
2 Fresnoy employed above twenty years in finishing his poem.
8 Frances Lady Worsley, wife of Sir Robert Worsley, Bart.
New graces yearly like thy works display,
EPISTLE TO MRS. MARTHA BLOUNT,
WITH THE WORKS OF VOITURE.
In these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shine,
easy art may happy nature seem;
Thus wisely careless, innocently gay,
Let the strict life of graver mortals be
appear, And more diverting still than regular; Have humour, wit, a native ease and grace, Though not too strictly bound to time and place. Critics in wit or life are hard to please; Few write to those, and none can live to these.
Too much your sex is by their forms confin’d, Severe to all, but most to womankind. Custom, grown blind with age, must be your guide; Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride; By nature yielding, stubborn but for fame, Made slaves by honour, and made fools by shame. Marriage may all those petty tyrants chase, But sets up one, a greater, in their place: Well might you wish for change by those accurst: But the last tyrant ever proves the worst.
Still in constraint your suffering sex remains,
The gods, to curse Pamela with her prayers,
part : She sighs, and is no duchess at her heart.
But, madam, if the fates withstand, and you