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His fortune squander'd, leaves his virtue bare Your power is fixt, your farne through time con. To every bribe, and blind to every snare:

vey'd, Clodio for bread his indolence must quit,

And Britain Europe's queen-if I am paid." Or turn a soldier, or commence a wit.

A statesman has bis answer in a tree; Such heroes have we! all, but life, they stake; Sir, such a genius is beyond all price; How must Spain tremble, and the German shake! What man can pay for this?"-Away be turns : Such writers have we! all, but sense, they print; His work is folded, and bis bosoan burns: E'en George's praise, is dated from the Mint. His patron he will patronise no more; In arms contemptible, in arts profane,

But rushes like a tempest out of door. Such swords, such pens. disgrace a monarch's reign. Lost is the patriot, and extinct his name! Reform your lives before you thus aspire,

Out comes the piece, another, and the same; And steal (for you can steal) celestial fire.

For A, his magic pen erokes an 0. 0! the just contrast ! 0! the beauteous strife! And turns the tide of Europe on the foe: 'T wixt their cool writings, and Pindaric life : He rams bis quill with scandal and with scoff; They write with phelgın, but then they live with But 't is so very foul, it won't go off: fire ;

Dreadful his thunders, while uoprinted, roar; They cheat the lender, and their works the buyer. But, when once publish'd, ther are heard do more. I reverence misfortune, not deride;

Thus distant bugbears fright; but, nearer draw, I pity poverty, but laugh at pride :

The block 's a block, and turns to mirth your are. For who so sad, but must some mirth ccnfess Can those oblige, whose beads and hearts are At gay Castruchio's miscellaneous dress?

such ? Though there's but one of the dull works he wrote, No; every party 's tainted by their touch. There's ten editions of his old lac'd coat,

Infected persons As each public place; These, Nature's commoners, who want a home, And none, or eneinies alone, embrace: Claim the wide world for their majestic dome; To the foul fiend their every passion's sold: They make a private study of the street ;

They love, and hate, extempore, for gold: And, looking full on every man they meet, What image of their fıry can we form? Run souse against his chaps; who stands amaz'd Dulness and rage, a puddle in a storm. To find they did not see, but only gaz'd.

Pest they in peace? If you are pleas'd to łuy, How must these bards be rapt into the skies? To suell your sails, like Lapland winds, they by: You need not read, you feel their ecstasies. Write they with rage? The tempest quickly tags;

Will they persist ? 'T' is madness ; Lintot, run, A state-Ulysses tames them with bis bags; See then confin'd—“), that's already done." Let him be what he will, Turk, Pagan, Jew; Most, as by leases, by the works they print, For Christian ministers of state are few. Have took, for life, po-se-sion of the Mint.

Behind the curtain lurks the fountain head, If you mistake, and pity these poor inen,

That pours his politics through pipes of lead; Est ulubris, they cry, and write again.

Which far and near ejaculate, and spout Such wits their nuisance manfully expose, O'er tea and coffee, poison to the roat : And then pronounce just judges Icarning's foes; But when they have bespatter'd all they may, O frail conclusion ! the reverse is true;

The statesinan thrours his filthy squirts away! If foes to learning, they'd be friends to you: With golden forceps, these, another takes, Treat them, ye judges ! with an honest scorn, And state elixirs of the vipers makes. And weed the cockle from the generous corn: The richest statesman wants wherewith to pay There's true good-nature in your disrespect; A servile scycophant, if well they weigh In justice to the good, the bad neglect:

How much it costs the wretch to be se base ; For iminoitality, if hardships plead,

Nor can the greatest powers enough disgrace, It is not theirs who write, but ours who read. Enough chustise, such prostitute applause,

But, O! what wisdomn can convince a fool, If well they weigh how much it stains their cause But that 't is dulness to conceive him dull?

But are our writers ever in the wrong? 'T is sad experience takes the censor's part, Does virtue ne'er seduce the venal tongue? Conviction, not from reason, but from smart. Yes; if well brib’d, for virtue's self they fight;

A virgin-author, recent from the press, Still in the wrong, though champions for the right: The sheets yet wet, applauds his great success; Whoe'er their crimes for interest only quit, Surveys them, reads them, takes their charnis to Sin on in virtue, and good deeds commit. bed,

Nought but inconstancy Britannia nieets, Those in his hand, and glory in his head :

And broken faith in their abandon'd sheets ; 'T is joy too great; a ferer of delight !

From the same hand how various is the page!
His heart beats thick, nor close bis eres all night : What civil war their brother pamphlets wage!
But, rising the next morn to clasp his fame, Tracts battle tracts, self-contradictions glare;
He finds that without sleeping he could dream: Say, is this lunacy? --I wish it were.
So sparks, they say, take goddesses to bed, If such our writers, startled at the sight,
And find next day the devil in their stead. Felons may bless their stars they cannot write!

In vain advertisements the town o'erspread; How justly Proteus' transmigrations fit
They ’re epitaphs, and say the work is dead. The monstrous changes of a modern wit!
Who press for fame, but small recruits will raise; Now such a gentle stream of eloquence
"T is volunteers alune can give the bays.

As seldoin rises to the verge of sense ;
A famous author visits a great man,

Now, by mad rage, transform'd into a flame, Of his immortal work displays the plan,

Which yet fit engines, well apply'd, can tame; And says, “Sir, I'm your friend; all fears dismiss; Now, on icomodest trash, the swine obscente Yuur glory, and my own, shall live by this; luvites the town to sup at Drury-lane ;

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A dreadful lion, now he roars at

power, Which sends him to his brothers at the Tower;

EPISTLE II.
He's now a serpent, and his double tongue

FROM OXFORD,
Salutes, nay licks, the feet of those he stung;
What knot cay bind him, his evasion such?

All write at London ; shall the rage abate
One knot he well deserves, which might do much.

Here, where it most should shine, the Muses' seat?
The flood, flame, swine, the lion, and the snake, The Icarp'd may choose eternity or ease?

Where, mortal, or immortal, as they please,
Those fivefold monsters, modern authors make :
The snake reigns most ; snakes, Pliny says, are

Has not a royal patron' wisely strove
bred,

To woo the Muse in her Atheniao grove? When the brain's perish'd in a human head.

Added new strings to her harmonious shell, Yegrov'lling, trodden, whipt, stript, turncoat things, Let these instruct with truth's illustrious ray,

And given new tongues to those who spoke so well? Made up of venom, volumes, stains, and stings! Thrown from the tree of knowledge, like you,

Awake the world, and scare our owls away.

Mean while, O friend ! indulge me, if I give curst To scribble in the dust, was Snake the first.

Some needful precepts how to write, and live; What is the figure should in fact prove true ?

Serious should be an author's final views; It did in Elkenab', why not in you?

Who write for pure amusement, ne'er amuse. Poor Elkenah, all other changes past,

An author ! 'Tis a venerable name! For bread in Smithfield dragons hiss'd at last,

How few deserve it, and what numbers claim ! Spit streams of fire to make the butchers gape,

Unblest with sense above their peers refin'd, And found his manners suited to his shape :

Who shall stand up, dictators to mankind ? Such is the fate of talents misapply'd ;

Nay, who dare shine, if not in virtue's cause, So liv'd your prototype; and so he died.

That sole proprietor of just applause? Th'abandon'd manners of our writing train

Ye restless men, who pant for letter'd praise, May tempt mankind to think religion vain;

With whom would you wonsult to gain the bays ?But in their fate, their babit, and their mien,

With those great authors whose fam'd works you

read? That gods there are is eminently seen: Heaven stands absolv'd by vengeance on their pen,

'T is well : go, then, consult the laurel'd shade, And marks the murderers of fame from men:

What answer will the laurel'd shade return? Through meagre jaws they draw their venal breath, Hear it, and tremble! he commands you burn As ghastly as their brothers in Macbeth :

The noblest works bis envy'd genius writ, Their feet through faithless leather meet the dirt,

That boast of naught more excellent than wit. And oftener chang'd their principles than shirt.

If this be true, as 't is a truih most dread, The transient vestinent of these frugal men

Woe to the page which has not that 10 plead! Hastens to paper for our mirth again :

Fontaine and Charcer, dying, wish'd unwrote Too soon (O merry-melancholy fate!)

The sprightliest eiforts of their wanton thought: "They beg in rhyme, and warble through a grate :

Sidney and Waller, brightest sons of fame, The man lampoon'd forgets it at the sight;

Condemn the charm of ages to the fame ;
The friend through pity gives the foe through spite; To think that early we must think at lasl.

And in one point is all true wisdom cast,
And though full conscious of his injur'd purse,
Lintot relents, nor Curll can wish them worse.

Immortal wits, e'en dead, break Nature's laws,

Injurious still to virtue's sacred cause;
So fare the men, who writers dare commence
Without their patent, probity and sense.

And their guilt growing, as their bodies rot,
From these, their politics our quidnuncs seek,

(Revers'd ambition !) pant to be forgot. And Saturday's the learning of the week :

Thus ends your courted fame : does lucre then, These labouring wits, like paviers, mend our ways,

The sacred thirst of gold, betray your pen? With heavy, huge, repeated, fat essays;

In prose 't is blameable, in verse 't is worse, Ram their coarse nonsense down, though ne'er so

Provokes the Muse, extorts Apollo's curse;

His sacred influence nerer should be sold; And hem at every thump upon your scull:

'T is arrant simony to sing for gold: These stanch-bred writing hounds begin the cry,

"T is immortality should fire your mind; And honest folly echoes to the lie.

Scorn a less payınaster than all mankind. O how I laugh, when I a blockbead see,

If bribes ye seck. know this, ye writing tribe ! Thanking a villain for his prolity!

Who writes for viriue has the largest bribe: Who stretches out a most respectful ear,

All's on the party of the virtuous man; With snares for woodcocks in his holy leer :

The good will surely serve bim, if they can; It tickles through my soul to hear the cock's

The bad, when interest or ambition guide, Sincere encomium on his friend the for,

And 't is at once their interest and their pride :

But should both fail to take him to their care, Sole patron of his liberties and rights !

He boasts a greater friend, and both may spare. While graceless Reynard listens till he bites. As, when the trumpet sounds, th' o'erloaded

Letters to man uncommon light dispense;

And what is virtue, but superior sense? state Discharges all her poor and profligate ;

In parts and learning ye who place your pride, Crimes of all kinds dishonour'd weapons wield,

Your faults are crimes, your crimes are doubleAnd prisons pour their filth into the field;

dy'd. Thus Nature's refuse, and the dregs of men,

What is a scandal of the first renown,
Compose the black militia of the pen.

But letter'd knaves, and atheists in a gown?
Settle, the city poet,

King George I.

dull;

1

'Tis harder far to please than give offence; Our age demands correctness; Addison
The least misconduct damns the brightest sense; And you this commendable hurt have done.
Fach shallow pate, that cannot read your name, Now writers find, as once Achilles found,
Can read your life, and will be proud to blame. The whole is mortal, if a part's unsound.
Flagitious manners make impressions deep

He that strikes out, and strikes not out the best, On those that o'er a page of Milton sleep :

Pours lustre in, and dignifies the rest : Nor in their dulness think to save your shame, Gire e'er so little, if what's right be there, True, these are fools; but wise men say the same. We praise for what you burn, and what you spare : Wits are a despicable race of men,

The part you burn smells sweet before the shrine, If they confine their talents to the pen;

And is as incense to the part divine. When the man shocks us, while the writer shines, Nor frequent write, though you can do it well; Our scorn in life, our envy in his lines.

Men may tvo of), though not too much, excel. Yet, proud of parts, with prudence some dispense, A few gowd works gain fame; more sink their price; And play the fool, because they 're men of sense. Mankind are fickle, and hate paying twice: What instances bleed recent in each thought, They granted you writ well: what can they more, Of men to ruin by their genius brought!

L'nless you let them praise for giving o'er ? Against their wills what numbers ruin hun,

Do boldly what you do; and let your page Purely through want of wit to be undone!

Smile, if it smiles, and if it rages, rage. Nature has shown, by making it so rare,

So faintly Lucius censures and cominends, That wit's a jewel which we need not wear. That Lucius has no foes, except bis friends. Of plain sound sense life's current coin is made; Let satire less engage you than applause ; With that we drive the most substantial trade. It shows a generous mind to wink at tlaws:

Prudence protects and guides us, wit betrays; Is genius yours? Be yours a glorious end, A splendid source of ill ten thousand ways; Be your king's, country's, truth's

, religion's friend; A certain snare to miseries immense ;

The public glory by your own beget;
A gay prerogative from common sense ;

Run nations, run posterity, in debt.
Utiless strong judgment that wild thing can tame, And since the fam'd alone make others live,
And break to paths of virtue and of fame.

First hare that glory you presume to give.
But grant your judgment equal to the best, If satire charms, strike faults, but spare the man;
Sense tills your head, and genius fires your breast; ”Tis dull to be as witry as you can.
Yet still forbear: your wit (consider well) Satire recoils whenever charg'd too high ;
'Tis great to show, but greater to conceal;

Round your own fame the fatal splinters fly. As it is great to seize the golden prize

As the soft plume gives swiftness to the dart, Of place or power; but greater to despise. Good-breeding sends the satire to the beart. If still you languish for an author's name,

Painters and surgeons may the structure scan; Think private merit less than public fainc,

Genius and morals be with you the man: And fancy not to write is not to live;

Defaults in those alone should give offence; Deserve, and take, the great prerogative,

Who strikes the person, pleads his innocence. Brit ponder what it is; how dear 't will cost, My narrow-minded satire can't extend To write one pare which you may justly boast. To Codrus' form ; I'm not so much bis friend :

Sense may be good, yet not deserve the press ; Himself should publish that the world agree) Who write, an awful character profess;

Before his works, or in the pillory. The world as pupil of their wisdom clair,

Let him be black, fair, tall, short, thin, or fat, And for their stipend an immortal fame :

Dirty or clean, I find no theme in that. Nothing but what is solid or relin'd

Is that callid humour It bas this pretence, Should dare ask public amlience of mankind. "Tis neither virtue, breeding, wit, or sense.

Severely weigh your learning and your uit: Unless you boast the genius of a Swift, Keep down your pride by what is nobly writ: Beware of humour, the dull mogue's last shirt. No writer, fam'd in your own way, pass o'er; Can others write like you? Your task give o'er, Much trost example, but reflection more:

'T is printing what was publish'd long before. More had the antients art, they more had taught; If naught peculiar through your labours run, Which shows some work is left for inodern thought. They're duplicates, and twenty are but one.

This weigh'd perfection know; and, know Think frequently, think close, read nature, turn 'Toil, burn for that; but do not aim at more ; Men's manners o'er, and half your volumes burn; Abore, beneath it, the just limits fix;

To nurse with quick retlection be your strife, And zealously prefer four lines to six.

'Thoughts born from present objects, warm from life; Write, and re-write, blot out, and write again, When most unsought, such inspirations rise, And for its swiftness ne'er applaud pour pen. Slighteal by fouls, and cherish'd by the wise : Leave to the jockeys that Newmarket praise, Expect peculiar fame from these alone; Slow runis the Pegasus that wins the bays.

l'hese make an author, these are all your own. Much time for immortility to pay,

Life, like their Bibles, coully men turn v'er; Is just and wise; for less is throun away.

Hence unexperienc'd children of threescore. Time only can mature the labouring brain;

True, all men think of conrse, as all men dream; Time is the father, and the mida ife pam:

And if they slightly think, 't is much the same,
The same good sense that makes a inan excel, Letters admit not of a half-renown;
Still makes hiin doubt he ne'er has written well. They give you nothing, or they give a crown.
Downright impossibilities they seek;

No work e'er gain'd true fame, or erer can,
What man can be immortal in a week?

But what did honour to the name of man. Crense no fault; though beautiful, 't will harm; Weighty the sulject, cogent the discourse, One fault shocks more tban twenty beau'ics charm. | Clear be the style, the very sound of force ;

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EPISTLE TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.

517 Easy the conduct, simple the design,

As when the rapid Rhone, o'er swelling tides,
Striking the moral, and the soul divine :

Te grace old Ocean's court, in triumph rides,
Let nature art, and judgment wit, exceed; Though rich bis source, he drains a thousand springs,
O’er learning reason reign; o'er that, your creed : Nor scorns the tribute each small rivulet brings.
Thus virtue's seeds, at once, and laurels, grow;

So thou shalt, bence, absorb each feeble ray,
Do thus, and rise a Pope, or a Despreau :

Each dawn of meaning, in thy brighter day; And when your genius exquisitely shines,

Shalt like, or, where thou canst not like, excuse,
Live up to the full lustre of your lines :

Since no mean interest shall profane the Muse,
Parts but expose those men who virtue quit; No malice, wrapt in truth's disguise, offend,
A fallen angel is a fallen wit;

Nor dattery taint the freedom of the friend.
And they plead Lucifer's detested cause,

When first a generous mind surveys the great,
Who for bare talents challenge our applause. And views the crowds that on their fortune wait ;
Would you restore just honours to the pen? Pleas'd with the show (though little understood)
From able writers rise to worthy nien. (strain? | He only seeks the power, to do the good;

“Who's this with nonsense, nonsense would re- Thinks, till he tries, 't is godlike to dispose,
Who's this,” they cry, "so vainly schools the vain ? And gratitude still springs, where bounty sows;
Who damns our trash, with so much trash replete? That every grant sincere affection wins,
As, three ells round, huge Cheyne rails at meat?" And where our wants have end, our love begins :
Shall I with Bavius then my voice exalt,

But those who long the paths of state pave trod,
And challenge all mankind to find one fault ? Learn from the clamours of the murmuring crowd,
With huge examens overwhelm my page,

Which cramm’d, yet craving still, their gates beAnd darken reason with dogmatic rage ?

siege, As if, one tedious volume writ in rhyme,

'Tis easier far to give, than to oblige. In prose a duller could excuse the crime?

This of thy conduct seems the nicest part, Sure, next to writing, the most idle thing

The chief perfection of the statesman's art, Is gravely to harangue on what we sing.

To give to fair assent a fairer face, At that tribunal stands the writing tribe,

Or soften a refusal into grace :
Which nothing can intimidate or bribe,

But few there are that can be truly kind,
Time is the judge; Time has nor friend nor foe; Or know to fix their favours on the mind;
False fame must wither, and the true will grow. Hence, some, whene'er they would oblige, offend,
Arm'd with this truth, all critics I defy;

And while they make the fortune, lose the friend;
For if I fall, by my own pen I die;

Still give, unthankd; still squander, not hestow; While snarlers strive with proud but fruitless pain, For great men want not, what to give, but how. To wound immortals, or to slay the slain.

The race of men that follow courts, 't is true, Sore prest with danger, and in awful dread Think all they get, and more than all, their due; Of twenty pamphlets level'd at my head,

Still ask, but ne'er consult their own deserts,
Thus have I forg'd a buckler in my brain,

And measure by their interest, not their parts:
Of recent form, to serve me this campaign! From this mistake so many men we see
And safely hope to quit the dreadful field

But ill become the thing they wish'd to be ;
Delug'd with ink, and sleep behind my shield; Hence di content, and fresh demands arise,
Unless dire Codrus rouses to the fray

More power, more favour in the great man's eyes;
In all his might, and damos me for a day. All feel a want, though none the cause suspects,
As turns a flock of geese, and, on the green, But hate their patron, for their own defects;
Poke out their fooli-h necks in awkward sple Such none can please, but who reforms their hearts,
(Ridiculous in rage!) to hiss, not bite,

And, when he gives them places, gives them parts.
So war their quills, when sons of dulness write. As the e o'erprize their worth, so sure the great

May sell their favoar at too dear a rate;
When merit pines, while clamour is preferr'd,

And long attachment waits among the berd;
AN EPISTLE

When no distinction, where distinction 's due,
Marks from the many the superior few;

When strong cabal constrains them to be just,
THE RIGHT HON. SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.

And makes them give at last-because they inust;
BY MR. DODDINGTON,

What hopes that men of real worth should prize,

What neither friendship gires, nor merit buys?
APTERWARDS LORD MELCOMBE.

The man who justly o'er the whole presides,
Quæ censet Amiculus, ut si

His well-weigh'd choice with wise affection guides;
Cæcus iter monstrare velit-

HOR.

Knows when to stop with grace, and when ad

vance,

Nor gives through importunity or chance ;
Though strength of genius, by experience taught, But thinks how little gratitude is ow'd,
Gives thee to sound the depths of human thought, When favours are extorted, not bestow'd.
To trace the various workings of the mind,

When, safe on shore ourselves, we see the crowd
And ryle the secret springs, that rule mankind; Surround the great, importimate, and loud;
(Rare gift!) yet, Walpole, wilt thou condescend Through such a tumult, 't is no easy task
To listen, if thy unexperienc'd friend

To drive the man of real worth to ask :
Can aught of use impart, though void of skill, Surrounded thus, and giddy with the show,
And win attention by sincere good-will;

'T is hard for great men, rightly to bestow ; For friendship, sometimes, want of parts supplies, From hence so few are skill'd, in either case, The heart may furnish what the head denies. To ask with dignity, or give with grace,

1

ΓΟ

Sometimes the great, seduc'd by love of parts, In awful ruin, like Rome's senate, fall, Consult our genius, and neglect our hearts; The prey and worship of the wondering Gaul. Pleas'd with the glittering sparks that genius flings, No doubt, to genius some reward is due, They lift us, towering on their eagle's wings, (Excluding that, were satirizing you ;) Mark out the flights by which themselves begun, But yet, believe thy undesigning friend, And teach our dazzled eyes to bear the sun; When truth and genius for thy choice contend, Till we forget the hand that made us great, Though both have weight when in the balance cast, And grow to envy, not to emulate :

Let probity be first, and parts the last. To emulate, a generous warmth implies,

On these foundations if thou dar'st be great, To reach the virtues, that make great men rise; And check the growth of folly and deceit; But envy wears a mean malignant face,

When party rage shall droop through length of days, And aims not at their virtues--but their place. And calumpy be ripen'd into praise,

Such to oblige, how rain is the pretence ! Then future times shall to thy worth allow When every favour is a fresh offence,

That fame, which envy would call flattery now. By which superior power is still imply'd,

Thus far my zeal, though for the task unfit, And, while it helps ineir fortune, hurts their pride. Has pointed out the rocks where others split; Slight is the hate, neglect or hardships breed; By that inspir’d, though stranger to the Nine, But those who hate from en y, hate indeed. And negligent of any fame—but thine, “Since su pe plex'd the choice, whom shall we I take the friendly, but superfluous part; trust?"

You act from nature what I teach from art.
Methirks I hear thee cry—The brave and just;
The min by no mean fears or hopes controld,
Who serves thee from affection, not for gold.

THE OLD MAN'S RELAPSE.
We love the honest, and esteem the brave,
Despise the coxcomb, but detest the knave;

VERSES
No show of parts the truly wise seduce,

OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING EPISTLE. To ibink that knaves can be of real use.

The man, who contradicts the public voice, And strives to dignify a worthless choice,

---Sopitos suscitat ignes. VIRG. Attempts a lask that on that choice reflects, And leads us light to point out new defects. From man's too curious and impatient sight, One worthless man, that gains what he pretends, The future, Heaven involves in thickest night. Disgusts a thousand unpretending friends : Credit gray hairs: though freedom much we boast, And since no art can make a counterpass,

Some least perform, what they determine most. Or add the weight of gold to mimic brass,

What sudden changes our resolves betray! When princes to bad ore their image join,

To morrow is a satire on to day, They more debase the stamp, than raise the coin. And shows its weakness. Whom shall men believe,

Be thine the care, true merit to reward, When constantly themselves, themselves deceive ? And gain the good-nor will that task be hard; Souls form’d alike so quick by nature blend,

Long bad l bid my once-lov’d Muse adieu ; An honest man is more than half thy friend.

You warm old age; my passion burns anew. Hiin, no inean views, or haste to rise, shall

How sweet your verse! how great your force of mind!

What power of words! what skill in dark mankind! sway, Thy choice to sully, or thy trust betray :

Polite the conduct; generous the design; Ainbition, here, shall at due distance stand;

And beauty files, and strength sustains, each line, Nor is wit dangerous in an honest hand :

Thus Mars and Venus are, once more, beset;

Your wit has caught them in its golden net.
Besides, if failings at the bottom lic,
We view those failings with a lover's eve;

But what strikes home with most exalted grace
Though small his genius, let him do his best, Is, haughty genius taught to know its place;
Our wishes and belief supply the rest.

And, where worth shines, its humbled crest to bend, Let others barter servile faith for goll,

With zeal devoted to that godlike end. His friendship is not to be bought or sold :

When we discern so rich a vein of sense, Fierce opposition he, upinov'd, shall face, Through the smooth flow of purest eloquence; Modest in favour, daring in disgrace,

T is like the limpid streams of Tagus rollid To share thy adverse fate alone, pretend; O'er boundless wealth, o'er shining beds of gold. In power, a servant; out of power, a friend. But whence so finish’d, so refin'd a piece ? Here pour thy favours in an ample food,

The tongue denies it to old Rome and Greece; Indulge thy boundless thirst of doing good :

The genius bids the moderns doubt their claim, Nor think that good to him alone contin'd; And slowly take possession of the fame. Such to oblige, is to oblige mankind.

But I nor know, nor care, by whom 't was writ, If thus thy mighty master's steps thou trace, Enough for me that 't is froin human wit, The brave to cherish, and the good to grace; That sooths my pride: all glory in the pon Long shalt thou stand from rage and factiou free, Which has done honour to the race of men, And teach us long to lose the king, through thee: Orjall a victim dingerous to the foe,

But this have others done; a like applause And make bim tremble when he strikes the blow;

An ancient and a modern Horace draws'. While honour, gratitude, affection join

But they to glory by degrees arose, To deck thy cluse, and brighten thy decline;

Meridian lustre you at once disclose. (Nu-trious duom!) the great, when thus displac'd, With friendship guarded, and with virtue gracid,

Boileau.

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