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So has the mighty merit of your play
dumb, Who took the Dutchman, and who cut the boom. Such praise is yours, while you the passions move, That 'tis no longer feign'd, 'tis real love, Where nature triumphs over wretched art; We only warm the head, but you the heart. Always you warm ; and if the rising year, As in hot regions, brings the sun too near, 'Tis but to make your fragrant spices blow, Which in our cooler climates will not grow, They only think
theme With too much fire, who are themselves all phlegm. Prizes would be for lags of flowest pace, Were cripples made the judges of the race. Despise those drones, who praise, while they accuse The too much vigour of your youthful muse. That humble ityle which they your virtue make, Is in your power ; you need but stoop and take. Your beauteous images muit be allow'd By all, but some vile poets of the crowd. But how should any sign-poit dawber know The worth of Titian or of Angelo ? Hard features every bungler can command; To draw true beauty thews a master's hand.
Hether the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian shore,
The feeds of arts and infant science bore, 'Tis sure the noble plant, translated first, Advanc'd its head in Grecian gardens nurst. The Grecians added verse : their tuneful tongue Made nature first, and nature’s God their song. Nor stopt translation here: for conqu’ring Rome, With Grecian spoils, brought Grecian numbers home; Enrich'd by those Athenian muses more, Than all the vanquilh'd world could yield before. "Till barb'rous nations, and more barb'rous times, Debas’d the majesty of verse to rhimes ; Those rude at firit: a kind of hobbling profe, That limp'd along, and tinkled in the close. But Italy, reviving from the trance Of Vandal, Goth, and Monkish ignorance, With pauses, cadence, and well-vowelld words, And all the graces a good ear affords. Made rhyme an art, and Dante's polith'd page kelor'd a silver, not a golden age.
Then Petrarch follow'd, and in him we see,
Great generals thus, descending from command,
EPIST LE the SIX T H.
DUTCHESS of YORK,
Return from SCOTLAND in the Year 1682.
W of love,
HEN factious rage to cruel exile drove
queen of beauty 1, and the court of love, The Muses droop'd, with their forsaken arts, And the sad Cupids broke their useless darts:
i On the 21st of November 1663, the duke of York was married to the princess Mary D’Efte daughter to the duke of Madena, Wher about fifteen years of age, and exireamly handsome.