Shakespeare, thy gift, I place before my fight:
With awe, I afk his bleffing ere I write ;
With reverence look on his majestic face;
Proud to be lefs, but of his godlike race.
His foul infpires me, while thy praise I write,
And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight:
Bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntless breast
Contemn the bad, and emulate the best.
Like his, thy criticks in th' attempt are lost :
When most they rail, know then, they envy moft.
In vain they fnarl aloof; a noify croud,
Like womens anger, impotent and loud.
While they their barren induftry deplore,
Pafs on fecure, and mind the goal before.
Old as the is, my Mufe fhall march behind,
Bear off the blaft, and intercept the wind.
Our arts are fifters, though not twins in birth:
For hymns were fung in Eden's happy earth:
But oh, the painter Mufe, though laft in place,
Has feiz'd the blessing first, like Jacob's race.
Apelles' art an Alexander found;
And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound;
But Homer was with barren laurel crown'd.
Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I;
But pafs we that unpleafing image by.
Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine;
All pilgrims come and offer at thy fhrine.
A graceful truth thy pencil can command;
The fair themselves go mended from thy hand.
Likeness appears in every
But likeness in thy work is eloquent.
Though nature there her true refemblance bears,
A nobler beauty in thy piece appears.
So warm thy work, fo glows the generous frame,
Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame.
Thou paint't as we defcribe, improving ftill,
When on wild nature we ingraft our skill;
But not creating beauties at our will.
But poets are confin'd in narrower space,
To speak the language of their native place:
The painter widely ftretches his command;
Thy pencil fpeaks the tongue of every land.
From hence, my friend, all climates are your own,
Nor can you forfeit, for hold of none.
All nations all immunities will give
To make you theirs, where'er you please to live;
And not feven cities, but the world would strive.
Sure fome propitious planet then did smile,
When first you were conducted to this isle :
Our genius brought you here, t'inlarge our fame;
For your good fstars are every where the same.
Thy matchless hand, of every region free,
Adopts our climate, not our climate thee.
Great Rome and Venice early did impart
To thee th' examples of their wondrous art.
Thofe mafters then, but feen, not understood,
With generous emulation fir'd thy blood:
For what in nature's dawn the child admir'd,
The youth endeavour'd, and the man acquir'd.
yet thou haft not reach'd their high degree,
'Tis only wanting to this age, not thee.
Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine,
Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare deûgn
A more exalted work, and more divine.
For what a fong, or fenfeless opera,
Is to the living labour of a play;
Or what a play to Virgil's work would be,
Such is a fingle piece to history.
But we, who life bestow, ourselves muft live:
Kings cannot reign, unless their subjects give;
And they, who pay the taxes, bear the rule:
Thus thou, fometimes, art forc'd to draw a fool:
But fo his follies in thy posture fink,
The fenfelefs ideot feems at laft to think.
Good heaven! that fots and knaves fhould be so vain, To wish their vile refemblance may
And stand recorded, at their own request,
To future days, a libel or a jefi!
Elfe fhould we fee your noble pencil trace
Our unities of action, time, and place :
A whole compos'd of parts, and those the best,
With every
various character exprest:
Heroes at large, and at a nearer view;
Lefs, and at distance, an ignobler crew.
While all the figures in one action join,
As tending to complete the main defign.
More cannot be by mortal art exprest;
But venerable age fhall add the reft.
For Time shall with his ready pencil stand;
Retouch your figures with his ripening hand;
Mellow your colours, and imbrown the teint;
Add every grace, which Time alone can grant;
To future ages fhall your fame convey,
And give more beauties than he takes away.
A familiar Epiftle to Mr. JULIAN, Secretary of the Muses.
THOU common fhore of this poetic town,
Where all the excrements of wit are thrown,
For fonnet, fatyr, bawdry, blafphemy,
Are emptied, and disburden'd all in thee :
The choleric wight untruffing all in rage
Finds thee, and lays his load upon thy page:
Thou Julian, or thou wife Vefpafian rather,
Doft from this dung thy well-pickt guineas gather,
All mifchief's thine, tranfcribing thou wilt stoop,
From lofty Middlesex to lowly Scroop.
What times are thefe, when in the hero's room,
Bow-bending Cupid doth with ballads come,
And little Afton offers to the bum?
Can two fuch pigmies fuch a weight fupport,
Two fuch Tom-Thumbs of fatire in a court?
Poor George grows old, his Mufe worn out of fashion,
Hoarfely he fung Ephelia's lamentation.
Lefs art thou help'd by Dryden's bed-rid age,
That drone has loft his fting upon the stage:
Refolve me, poor apoftate, this my doubt,
What hope haft thou to rub this winter out?
Know, and be thankful then, for Providence
By me hath sent thee this intelligence.
A knight there is, if thou canft gain his grace,
Known by the name of the Hard-favour'd Face,
For prowess of the pen renown'd is he,
From Don Quixote defcended lineally;
And, though like him unfortunate he prove,
Undaunted in attempts of wit and love.
Of his unfinish'd face, what fhall I say?
But that 'twas made of Adam's own red clay,
That much, much ochre was on it beftow'd,
God's image 'tis not, but fome Indian god :
Our Christian earth can no resemblance bring
But ware of Portugal for such a thing;
Such carbuncles his fiery face confefs,
As no Hungarian water can redrefs.
A face which fhould he fee (but heaven was kind,
And, to indulge his felf, Love made him blind.)
He durft not ftir abroad for fear to meet
Curfes of teeming women in the street:
The best could happen from this hideous fight,
Is that they should miscarry with the fright-
Such is our charming Strephon's outward man,
His inward parts let those disclose who can :
One while he honoureth Birtha with his flame,
And now he chants no lefs Lovifa's name;
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