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EPISTLE the FIRST.

TO MY HONORED FRIEND

Sir ROBERT HOWARD,

ON HIS

EXCELLENT PO EM S.

A

S there is mufic uninform'd by art

In those wild notes, which with a merry heart The birds in unfrequented shades express, Who, better taught at home, yet please us lefs:

So in your

verse a native sweetness dwells, Which shames compofure, and its art excels. Singing no more can your soft numbers grace, Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face. Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep,

Their even calmness does suppose them deep; Such is your mufe: no metaphor swell'd high With dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky: Those mounting fancies, when they fall again, Shew fand and dirt at bottom do remain.

fo

So firm a ftrength, and yet withal so sweet,

Did never but in Samfon's riddle meet.

'Tis strange each line fo great a weight should bear, And yet no fign of toil, no fweat appear.

Either your art hides art, as ftoics feign

Then least to feel, when moft they fuffer pain;
And we, dull fouls, admire, but cannot fee
What hidden springs within the engine be:
Or 'tis fome happiness that ftill pursues
Each act and motion of your graceful mufe.
Or is it fortune's work, that in your head
The curious net that is for fancies spread,
Lets thro its meshes every meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair
To be the child of chance, and not of care.

No atoms cafually together hurl'd

Could e'er produce fo beautiful a world.
Nor dare I fuch a doctrine here admit,
As would destroy the providence of wit.
'Tis your ftrong genius then which does not feel
Those weights, would make a weaker spirit reel.
To carry weight, and run fo lightly too,
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.

Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more,
Than not to feel those heavens and gods he bore.
Your eafier odes, which for delight were penn'd,
Yet our inftruction make their second end:
We're both enrich'd and pleas'd, like them that woe
At once a beauty, and a fortune too.

Of moral knowlege poefy was queen,

And still she might, had wanton wits not been;
Who, like ill guardians, liv'd themselves at large,
And, not content with that, debauch'd their
charge.

Like fome brave captain, your fuccessful pen
Restores the exil'd to her crown again :

And gives us hope, that having seen the days
When nothing flourish'd but fanatic bays,
All will at length in this opinion rest,
"A fober prince's government is best."

This is not all; your art the way has found
To make th'improvement of the richest ground,
That foil which those immortal laurels bore,
That once the facred Maro's temples wore.
Elifa's griefs are fo exprefs'd by you,
They are too eloquent to have been true.
Had she so spoke, Æneas had obey'd
What Dido, rather than what Jove had faid.
If funeral rites can give a ghoft repose,
Your muse so justly has difcharged those,
Elifa's fhade may now its wandring cease,
And claim a title to the fields of peace.
But if Æneas be oblig'd, no less
Your kindness great Achilles doth confefs;
Who, drefs'd by Statius in too bold a look,
Did ill become thofe virgin robes he took.
To understand how much we owe to you,
We must your numbers, with your author's, view:
Then we shall see his work was lamely rough,
Each figure ftiff, as if defign'd in buff:
His colors laid fo thick on every place,

As only fhew'd the paint, but hid the face.
But as in perfpective we beauties fee,

Which in the glass, not in the picture, be;
So here our fight obligingly mistakes

That wealth, which his your bounty only makes.

Thus vulgar dishes are, by cooks disguis'd,

More for their dreffing, than their fubftance priz'd.

Your curious notes fo search into that age,
When all was fable but the facred page,

That, fince in that dark night we needs must stray,
We are at least misled in pleasant way.

But what we moft admire, your verse no lefs
The prophet than the poet doth confess.

Ere our weak eyes difcern'd the doubtful streak
Of light, you faw great Charles his morning break.
So fkilful feamen ken the land from far,
Which fhews like mifts to the dull paffenger.
To Charles your mufe first pays her duteous love,
As ftill the antients did begin from Jove.
With Monk you end, whofe name prefèrv'd fhall be,
As Rome recorded Rufus' memory,

Who thought it greater honor to obey

His country's intereft, than the world to fway.
But to write worthy things of worthy men,
Is the peculiar talent of your pen:
Yet let me take your mantle up, and I
Will venture in your right to prophefy.
"This work, by merit first of fame secure,
"Is likewife happy in its geniture:

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