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One moral, or a meer. well-natur'd deed,
Does all defert in Sciences exceed.

'Tis great Delight to laugh at some men's ways, But a much greater to give Merit praise. amol aid Das AC MIO

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THE Mufe, of ev'ry heav'nly gift allow'd
To be the chief, is publick, tho' not proud.
Widely extenfive is the Poet's aim,
And, in each verse, he draws a bill on fame.
For none have writ (whatever they pretend)
Singly to raise a Patron or a Friend;
But whatfoe'er the theme or object be,
Some commendations to themselves forefee.
Then let us find, in your foregoing page,
The celebrating Poems of the age,
Nor by injurious fcruples think it fit,

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To hide their Judgments who applaud your Wit:
But let their pens, to yours, the heralds prove,
Who strive for you as Greece for Homer ftrove.
Whilst he who beft your Poetry afferts,
Afferts his own, by fympathy of parts.
Me Panegyrick verfe does not infpire,
Who never well can praise what I admire,

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But gently drop this counsel in your ear.
Go on, to gain applaufes by defert,

Inform the head, whilst you diffolve the heart:
Inflame the Soldier with harmonious rage,
Elate the young, and gravely warm the fage:
Allure, with tender verfe, the Female race,
And give their darling paffion, courtly grace.
Describe the Foreft ftill in rural ftrains,
With vernal sweets fresh-breathing from the plains.
Your Tales be easy, natural, and gay,
Nor all the Poet in that part display;
Nor let the Critic, there his skill unfold,
For Boccace thus, and Chaucer tales have told.
Sooth, as you only can, each differing taste,
And for the future charm as in the past.
Then should the verse of ev'ry artful hand
Before your numbers eminently stand
In you no vanity could thence be shown,
Unless, since short in beauty of your own,
Some envious scribler might in spight declare,
That for comparison you plac'd 'em there.
But Envy could not against you fucceed,
'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read;
Cenfure or Praise must from our felves proceed.

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To Mr. POPE on his PASTORALS.

By Mr. WTCHERLET.

I

N these more dull, as more cenforious days,
When few dare give, and fewer merit praise;
A Mufe fincere, that never flatt'ry knew,
Pays what to friendship and defert is due.
Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found
Art strengthning Nature, Senfe improv'd by Sound:
Unlike thofe Wits, whofe numbers glide along
So fmooth, no thought e'er interrupts the fong:
Laboriously enervate they appear,

And write not to the head, but to the ear:
Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull,
And are at best most musically dull.
So purling ftreams with even mrumurs creep,
And hush the heavy hearers into fleep.
As smootheft speech is most deceitful found,
The smoothest numbers oft' are empty found,
And leave our lab'ring fancy quite a-ground.
But Wit and Judgment join at once in you,
Sprightly as youth, as age confummate too:
Your strains are regularly bold, and please
With unforc'd care, and unaffected ease,
With proper thoughts, and lively images:
Such as by Nature to the Ancients shown,
Fancy improves, and Judgment makes your own:
For great men's fashions to be follow'd are,
Altho' disgraceful 'tis their cloaths to wear.

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Some in a polish'd style write Pastoral,
Arcadia fpeaks the language of the Mall,
Like fome fair fhepherdefs, the fylvan Mufe,
Deck'd in thofe flow'rs her native fields produce,
With modeft charms would in' plain neatness please,
But feems a dowdy in the courtly dress,
Whofe aukward finery allures us less.
But the true measure of the fhepherd's wit
Should, like his garb, be for the country fit;
Yet must his pure and unaffected thought
More nicely then the common fwains be wrought:
So, with becoming art, the Players dress
In filks, the shepherd, and the fhepherdess;
Yet still unchang'd the form and mode remain,
Shap'd like the homely ruffet of the fwain.
Your rural Muse appears to justify
The long-loft graces of Simplicity:
So rural beauties captivate our sense
With virgin charms, and native excellence.
Yet long her modesty those charms conceal❜d,
Till by men's envy to the world reveal'd;
For Wits industrious to their trouble feem,
And needs will envy, what they must esteem.

Live, and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate
Which wou'd, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait;
Whose Muse did once, like thine, in plains delight;
Thine shall, like his, foon take a higher flight;
So Larks, which firft from lowly fields arife,
Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.

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Killala in the County of Mayo
in Ireland, June 7.1715.

Mr. POPE on his WINDSOR-FOREST.

H

AIL, facred Bard! a Muse unknown before
Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic fhore.
To our dark world thy fhining page is shown,
And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own.
The Eastern pomp had just bespoke our care,
And India pour'd her gawdy treasures here:
A various spoil adorn'd our naked land,
The pride of Perfia glitter'd on our strand,
And China's Earth was caft on common fand:
Tofs'd up and down the gloffy fragments lay,
And dress'd the rocky fhelves, and pav'd the painted bay.
Thy treasures next arriv'd: And now we boast
A nobler Cargo on our barren coast.
From thy luxuriant Foreft we receive
More lasting glories than the East can give.
Where-e'er we dip in thy delightful page,
What pompous fcenes our busy thoughts engage!
The pompous scenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were.
Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhows
The sylvan state that on her border grows,
While she the wondring thepherd entertains
With a new Windfor in her watry plains:
Thy jufter lays the lucid wave surpass;
The living scene is in the Mufe's glass.

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