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But flav'ry!-virtue dreads it as her grave;
Patience itief is meannefs, in a flave:
Or if the will and fovereignty of God
Bid fuffer it awhile, and kifs the rod;
Wait for the dawning of a brighter day,
And fnap the chain the moment when you may.
Nature imprints upon whate'er we fee,
That has a heart, and life in it, Be free!
The beaits are charter'de-neither age nor force
Can quell the love of freedom in a horse:
He breaks the cord that held him at the rack,
And, confcious of an unencumber'd back,
Snuffs up the morning air, forgets the rein,
Loote fly his forelock and his ample mane;
Refponfive to the diftant neigh he neighs,
Nor ftops till, overleaping all delays,
He finds the pasture where his fellows graze.

§110. On Liberty, and in Praife of Mr. Howard.

COWPER.

O could I worship ought beneath the skies
That earth hath feen, or fancy could devife,
Thine altar, facred Liberty, fhould stand,
Built by no mercenary, vulgar hand.
With fragrant turf, and flow'rs as wild and fair
As ever dreis'd a bank, or fcented fummer air.
Duly as ever on the mountain's height
The peep of morning fhed a dawning light;
Again, when evening in her fober veft
Drew the grey curtain of the fading Weft;
My foul hould yield thee willing thanks and
For the chief bleflings of my faireft days: [praife
But that were facrilege-praife is not thine,
But his who gave thee, and preferves thee mine:
Elfe I would fay, and as I ipake bid fly
A captive bird into the boundlefs fky,
This triple realm adores thee-thou art come
From Sparta hither, and art here at home;
We feel thy force ftill active, at this hour
Enjoy immunity from prieitly pow'r;
While confcience, happier than in ancient years,
Owns no fuperior but the God the fears.
Propitious Spirit! yet expunge a wrong
Thy rites have fuffer'd, and our land, too long;
Teach mercy to ten thoufand hearts that thare
The fears and hopes of a commercial care:
Prifons expect the wicked, and were built
To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt;
But fhipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood,
Are mighty mifchiefs, not to be withstood:
And honeft merit ftands on flipp'ry ground
Where covert guile, and artifice abound:
Let just restraint, for public peace defign'd,
Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind;
The foe of virtue has no claim to thee,
But let infolvent innocence go free.

Patron of elfe the moft defpis'd of men,
Accept the tribute of a ftranger's pen;
Verfe, like the laurel, its immortal meed,
Should be the guerdon of a noble deed:
I may alarm thee, but I fear the shame
(Charity chofen as my theme and aim)
I muft incur, forgetting Howard's name.
Bleft with all wealth can give thee-to refign
Joys, doubly fwect to feelings quick as thine;

To quit the blifs thy rural scenes bestow
To feek a nobler, amidft fcenes of woe; [home,
To traverfe feas, range kingdoms, and bring
Not the proud monuments of Greece or Rome,
But knowledge, fuch as only dungeons teach,
And only fympathy like thine could reach;
That grief, fequefter'd from the public ftage,
Might fmooth her feathers, and enjoy her cage→
Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal

The boldest patriot might be proud to feel,
Oh that the voice of clamour and debate,
That pleads for peace till it disturbs the state,
Were huth'd, in favour of thy gen'rous plea,
The poor thy clients, and Heaven's smile thy fee!

§ 111. On Domeftic Happiness, as the Friend of
Virtue; and of the falje Good-nature of the
Age.
COWPER.

DOMESTIC happiness, thou only blifs

Of Paradife that has furviv'd the fall!
Tho' few now tafte thee unimpair'd and pure,
Or, tafting, long enjoy thee; too infirm
Or too incautious to preferve thy fweets
Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which neglec
Or temper fheds into thy chrystal cup.
Thou art the nurfe of virtue. In thine arms
She smiles, appearing, as in truth the is,
Heaven-born, and deftin'd to the fkies again.
Thou art not known where Pleasure is ador'd,
That reeling goddefs with the zoneless waist
And wand'ring eyes, ftili leaning on the arm
Of Novelty, her fickle, frail fupport;
For thou art meek and conftant, hating change,
And finding in the calm of truth-tied love
Joys that her ftormy raptures never yield.
Forfaking thee, what fhipwreck have we made
Of honour, dignity, and fair renown,
Till proftitution elbows us afide

In all our crowded streets, and fenates feem
Conven'd for purposes of empire less
Than to release th' adult'refs from her bond!
Th' adult'refs! what a theme for angry verle,
What provocation to the indignant heart
That feels for injur'd love! But I disdain
The naufeous taik to paint her as fhe is,
Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame.
No. Let her pafs; and, charioted along,
In guilty fplendour fhake the public ways:
The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white,
And verfe of mine thall never brand the wretch
Whom matrons now, of character un fmirch'd,
And chafte themselves, are not afham'd to own.
Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time
Not to be pafs'd; and she that had renounc`d
Her fex's honour, was renounc'd herself
By all that priz'd it; not for Prudery's sake,
But Dignity's refentful of the wrong.
'Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waif
Defirous to return, and not receiv'd;
But was an wholefome rigour in the main,
And taught th' unblemih'd to preserve with
That purity, whofe lofs was lofs of all. [care
Men too were nice in honour in those days,
And judg'd offenders well: and be that tharp'd
And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd,
Was

Was mark'd, and shunn'd as odious. He that fold
His country, or was flack when the requir'd
His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch,
Paid with the blood that he had bafely spar'd
The price of his default. But now-yes, now,
We are become fo candid and fo fair,
So liberal in conftruction, and fo rich
In Christian charity, a good-natur'd age!
That they are fafe: finners of either fex [bred,
Tranfgrefs what laws they may. Well drefs'd,well
Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough
To pafs us readily through ev'ry door.
Hypocrify, deteft her as we may,
(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet)
May claim this merit ftill, that the admits
The worth of what the mimics with fuch care,
And thus gives virtue indirect applaufe:
But he has burnt her masks, not needed here,
Where vice has fuch allowance, that her fhifts
And specious femblances have loft their use.

112. On the Employments of what is called an
COWPER.

Idle Life.

How various his employments whom the world
Calls idle, and who juftly, in return,
Efteems that bufy world an idler too!
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,
Delightful industry enjoy'd at home,
And nature in her cultivated trim
Drefs'd to his taste, inviting him abroad-
Can he want occupation who has these?
Will he be idle who has much t' enjoy?
Me therefore, ftudious of laborious ease,
Not flothful; happy to deceive the time,
Nor waste it; and aware that human life
Is but a loan to be repaid with use,
When he thall call his debtors to account
From whom are all our bleifings-bufinefs finds
Ev'n here. While fedulous I feek t' improve,
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd
The mind he gave me; driving it, though flack
Too oft, and much impeded in its work
By caufes not to be divulg'd in vain,
To its juft point-the fervice of mankind.
He that attends to his interior felf,
That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind
That hungers, and fupplies it; and who feeks
A social, not a diffipated life-

Has bufinets; feels himself engag'd t' achieve
No unimportant, though a filent talk.
A life all turbulence and noife may feem,
To him that leads it, wife, and to be prais'd;
But wifdom is a pearl with moft fuccefs
Sought in ftill water, and beneath clear (kies.
He that is ever occupied in ftorms
Or dives not for it, or brings up instead,
Vainly induftrious, a difgraceful prize.
113. The Poft comes in the News paper is
read-The World contemplated at a distance.
CowPER.
HARK! 'tis the twanging horn! o'er yonder
That with its wearifome but needful length

Befrides the wint'ry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,
He comes, the herald of a noify world, [locks,
With fpatter'd boots, ftrapp'd waist, and frozen
News from all nations lumb'ring at his back.
True to his charge, the clofe-pack'd load behind
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the deftin'd inn;
And, having dropp'd th' expected big, pass on.
He whittles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold, and yet cheerful; meffenger of grief
Perhaps to thoufands, and of joy to some;
To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.
Houfes in afhes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Faft as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charg`d with am`rous fighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs refponive, equally affect
His horfe and him, unconscious of them all.
But oh th' important budget! ufher'd in
With fuch heart-fhaking mufic, who can fay
What are its tidings: have our troops awik'd!
Or do they fill, as if with opium drugg'd,

Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave?
Is India free? and does the wear her plum'd
And jewell'd turban with a fmile of peace,
Or do we grind her ftill? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all;
I burn to fet th' imprifon'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utt'rance once again.

Now itir the fire, and clofe the fhutters faft,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the fofa round,
And while the bubbling and lou !-hitling urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in.
Not fuch his ev'ning who, with thining face,
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and fqueez'd,
And bor'd with elbow-points thro'both his fides,
Outfcolds the ranting actor on the stage.
Nor his, who patient ftands till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen all tranquillity and finiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not ev'n critics criticife, that holds
Inquifitive attention, while I read,

Falt bound in chains of filence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break-
What is it but a map of bufy life,

Its fluctuations, and its vaft concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts ambition. On the fummit, fee
The feals of office glitter in his eyes;
[heels,
He climbs, he pants, he grafps them. At his
Clofe at his heels, a demagogue afcends,
And with a dext’rous jerk foontwifts him down,
And wins them, but to lofe them in his turn.

Here rills of oily eloquence in foft
Meanders lubricate the courfe they take:
The modeft fpeaker is atham'd and griev'd

Tengrofs

T'engrofs a moment's notice: and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praife:
The dearth of information and good fenfe
That it foretels us, always comes to pass.
Cataracts of declamation thunder here,
There forests of no meaning spread the page
In which all comprehenfion wanders loft;
While fields of pleafantry amufe us there
With merry defcants on a nation's woes.
The reft appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confufion-rofes for the cheeks
And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothlefs, ringlets for the bald,
Heaven,earth,andocean plunder'dof theirfweets,
Nectareous effences, Olympian dews;
Sermons, and city feafts, and fav'rite airs,
Æthereal journies, fubmarine exploits,
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.
'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat
To peep at fuch a world: to fee the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd:
To hear the roar fhe fends through all her gates
At a fafe distance, where the dying found
Falls a foft murmur on th' uninjur'd ear.
Thus fitting, and furveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I feem advanc'd
To some fecure and more than mortal height.
That lib'rates and exempts me from them all.
It turns fubmitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold

The tumult, and am still; the sound of war
Has loft its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And av'rice that makes man a wolf to man,
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And figh, but never tremble at the found.
He travels and expatiates, as the bee
From flow'r to flow'r, fo he from land to land;
The manners, cuftoms, policy of all
Pay contribution to the ftore he gleans;
He fucks intelligence in ev'ry clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return, a rich repaft for me!
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Afcend his topmaft, through his peering eyes
Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and fhare in his escapes:
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is ftill at home:

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And there, at utmost stretch of eye,
A mountain fades into the sky;
While winding round, diffus'd and deep,
A river rolls with founding sweep.
Of human art no traces near,
I feem alone with nature here!

Here are thy walks, O facred Health!
The Monarch's blifs, the Beggar's wealth,
The feas'ning of all good below,
The fovereign's friend in joy or woe.
O Thou, most courted, most defpis'd,
And but in abfence, duly priz'd!
Pow'r of the foft and rofy face!
The vivid pulfe, the vermeil grace,
The fpirits, when they gayeft thine,
Youth, beauty, pleasure, all are thine!
O fun of life, whose heavenly ray
Lights up and cheers our various day,
The turbulence of hopes and fears,
The storm of fate, the cloud of years,
Till nature, with thy parting light,
Repofes late in Death's calm night:
Fled from the trophied roofs of state,
Abodes of fplendid pain and hate;
Fled from the couch, where, in fweet fleep
Hot Riot would his anguish fteep,
But toffes through the midnight shade,
Of death, of life, alike afraid;
For ever fled to shady cell,

Where Temp'rance, where the Mufes dwell,
Thou oft art feen, at early dawn,
Slow-pacing o'er the breezy lawn;
Or, on the brow of mountain high,
In filence feafting ear and eye
With fong and profpect, which abound
From birds, and woods, and waters round.

But when the fun, with noon-tide ray,
Flames forth intolerable day;
While Heat fits fervent on the plain,
With Thirft and Langour in his train
(All nature fick'ning in the blaze),
Thou in the wild and woody maze
That clouds the vale with umbrage deep,
Impendent from the neighb'ring steep,
Wilt find betimes a calm retreat,
Where breathing Coolness has her feat.
There plung'd amid the fhadows brown,
Imagination lays him down;
Attentive in his airy mood,
To ev'ry murmur of the wood:
The bee in yonder flow'ry nook;
The chidings of the headlong brook;
The green leaf quiv'ring in the gale;
The warbling hill, the lowing vale;
The diftant woodman's echoing stroke;
The thunder of the falling oak.
From thought to thought in vifion led,
He holds high converfe with the Dead;
Sages or Poets. See, they rife!
And fhadowy fkim before his eyes,
Hark! Orpheus ftrikes the lyre again,
That foften'd favages to men:
Lo! Socrates, the Sent of Heaven,
To whom its moral will was given.

Fathers

Fathers and Friends of human kind!
They form'd the nations, or refin'd,
With all that mends the head and heart,
Enlight'ning truth, adorning art.

Thus muting in the folemn fhade,
At once the founding breeze was laid:
And nature, by the unknown law,
Shook deep with reverential awe;
Dumb filence grew upon the hour;
A browner night involv'd the bow'r:
When iffuing from the inmost wood,
Appear'd fair Freedom's Genius good.
O Freedom! fov'reign boon of Heav'n,
Great Charter with our being giv'n;
For which the patriot and the fage
Have plann'd, have bled, thro' ev'ry age!
High privilege of human race,
Beyond a mortal monarch's grace:
Who could not give, who cannot claim,
What but from God immediate came!
* * * *

*

115. Ode to Evening. Dr. Jos. WARTON. HALL, meek-ey'd maiden, clad in fober grey, Whose foft approach the weary woodman loves;

Pale Ifis lay; a willow's lowly fhade
Spread its thin foliage o'er the fleeping maid;
Clos'd was her eye, and from her heaving breaft
In careless folds loofe flow'd her zoneless veft;
While down her neck her vagrant tresses flow,
In all the awful negligence of woe;

Her urn fuftain'd her arm, that sculptur'd vafe
Where Vulcan's art had lavish'd all his grace.
Here, full with life, was heaven-taught Science
seen,

Known by the laurel wreath and mufing mien;
There cloud-crown'd Fame, here Peace, fedate
and bland,
[wand;
Swell'd the loud trump, and wav'd the olive
While folemn domes, arch'd shades, and vistas

green,

At well-mark'd distance close the facred scene.
On this the goddess caft an anxious look,
Then dropp'd a tender tear, and thus the spoke:
Yes, I could once with pleas'd attention trace
The mimic charms of this prophetic vase;
Then lift my head, and with enraptur'd eyes
View on yon plain the real glories rife.
Yes, Ifis! oft haft thou rejoic'd to lead
Thy liquid treasures o'er yon fav'rite mead :
Oft haft thou ftopp'd thy pearly car to gaze,
While ev'ry Science nurs'd its growing bays;
While cv'ry Youth, with fame's strong impulfo
Prefs'd to the goal, and at the goal untir'd, [fir'd,
Snatch'd each celeftial wreath to bind his brow
The Mufes, Graces, Virtues, could bestow.

E'en now fond Fancy leads th' ideal train,
And ranks her troops on Memory's ample plain;
See! the firm leaders of my patriot line,
See! Sidney, Raleigh, Hampden, Somers, fhine.
See Hough, fuperior to a tyrant's doom,
Smile at the menace of the flave of Rome:
En foul whom truth could fire, or virtue move,
ach breaft ftrong pantingwith its country's love,
All that to Albion gave their heart or head,
That wifely counsell'd, or that bravely bled,
All, all appear; on me they grateful fmile,
To me with filial reverence they bring,
The well-earn'd prize of every virtuous toil
And hang fresh trophies o'er my honor'd fpring.
Ah! I remember well yon beechen spray,
There Addifon first tun'd his polish'd lay;
'Twas there great Cato's form first met his eye,
In all the pomp of free-born majefty;

As homeward bent to kiss his prattling babes
Jocund he whiftles through the twilight groves.
When Phoebus finks behind the gilded hills,
You lightly o'er the mifty meadows walk;
The drooping daifies bathe in dulcet dews,
And nurie the nodding violet's tender stalk.
The panting Dryads, that in day's fierce heat
To inmoft bow'rs and cooling caverns ran,
Return, to trip in wanton ev'ning dance;
Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan.
To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair,
Light fkims the fwallow o'er the wat'ry fcene;
And from the fheep-cot, and fresh-furrow'd field,
Stout ploughmen meet, to wrestle on the green.
The fwain, that artless fings on yonder rock,
His fupping fheep and length ning fhadow ipies,
Pleas'd with the cool, the calm, refreshing hour,
And with hoarse humming of unnumber'd flies.
Now ev'ry Paffion fleeps: defponding Love,
And pining Envy, ever-reftlefs Pride;
And holy Čalm creeps o'er my peaceful foul,
Anger and mad Ambition's ftorms fubdue.
O modeft Evening! oft let me appear
A wandering votary in thy penfive train;
Lift'ning to every wildly-warbling note
That fills with farewell fweet thy dark ning plain."

[awe,

My fon," he cried, "obferve this mien with "In folemn lines the ftrong resemblance draw; "The piercing notes fhall ftrike each British ear, Each British eye fhall drop the patriot tear! And, rous'd to glory by the nervous strain, "Each youth fhall fpurn at flavery's abject reign; "Shall guard with Cato's zeal Britannia's laws, of" And Ipeak, and act, and bleed, in freedom's

§116. Ifis. An Elegy. By Mr. MASON,
Cambridge.
FAR from her hallow'd grot, where, mildly
bright,

"caufe."

The Hero fpoke; the bard affenting bow'd; The lay to Liberty and Cato flow'd; While Echo, as the rov'd the vale along, Join'd the ftrong cadence of his Roman fong. But, ah! how Stillness fiept upon the ground, Where coral glow'd, where twin'd the wreathed How mute attention check'd each rifing found,

The pointed chryftals fhot their trembling light; From dripping mofs, where fparkling dew-drops fell,

[fhell,

Scarce

I

Scarce ftole a breeze to wave the leafy spray,
Scarce trill'd fweet Philomel her fofteft lay,
When Locke walk'd mufing forth! e'en now
Majeftic Wifdom thron'd upon his brow; [view
View Candour fmile upon his modeft cheek,
And from his eye all Judgment's radiance break.
Twas here the fage his manly zeal exprefs'd,
Here ftripp'd vain Falfehood of her gaudy veft;
Here Truth's collected beams firft fill'd his mind,
Ere long to burft in bleffings on mankind;
Ere long to fhew to reafon's purged eye,
That "Nature's first best gift was Liberty."
Proud of this won'drous fon, fublime I ftood,
(While louder furges fwell'd my rapid flood);
Then, vain as Niobe, exulting cried,
Iliffus! roll thy fam'd Athenian tide;
Tho' Plato's fteps oft mark'd thy neighb'ring
Tho' fair Lycaum lent its awful thade, [glade,
Tho' ev'ry Academic green imprefs'd
Its image full on thy reflecting breast,
Yet my pure ftream fhall boast as proud a name,
And Britain's Ifis flow with Attic fame.
Alas! how chang'd! where now that Attic
boaft?

See! Gothic Licence rage o'er all my coaft;
See! Hydra Faction fpreads its impious reign,
Poifon each breast, and madden ev'ry brain:
Hence frontless crowds that,not content to fright
The blufhing Cynthia from her throne of night,
Blaft the fair face of day; and, madly bold,
To Freedom's foes infernal orgies hold;
To Freedom's foes, ah! fee the goblet crown'd,
Hear plaufive fhouts to Freedom's foes refound;
The horrid notes my refluent waters daunt,
The Echoes groan, the Dryads quit their haunt;
Learning, that once to all diffus'd her beam,
Now fheds, by stealth, a partial private gleam
In fome lone cloifter's melancholy fhade,
Where a firm few fupport her fickly head,
Defpis'd, infulted, by the barb'rous train,
Who fcour, like Thracia's moon-ftruck rout,
the plain,

Sworn foes, like them, to all the Mufe approves,
All Phoebus favours, or Minerva loves.

Are thefe the fons my foft'ring breast must rear,
Grac'd with my name, and nurtur'd by my care?
Muft thefe go forth from my maternal hand
To deal their infults thro' a peaceful land;
And boaft, while Freedom bleeds, and Virtue

groans,

That Is taught Rebellion to her Sons ?"
Forbid it, Heaven! and let my rifing waves
Indignant fwell, and whelm the recreant flaves!
In England's caufe their patriot floods employ,
As Xanthus deiug'd in the caufe of Troy.
Is this denied; then point fone fecret way
Where far, far hence thefe guiltlefs ftre ms may
ftray;
[reads
Some unknown channel lend, where Nature
Inglorious vales, and unfrequented meads:
There, where a hind scarces tunes his ruftic train,
Where fcarce a pilgrim treads the pathlefs plain,
Content I'll flow; forget that e'er my tide
Saw yon majeltic ftructures crown its fide;

Forget that e'er my wrapt attention hung
Or on the Sage's or the Poet's tongue;
Calm and refign'd my humbler lot embrace,
And, pleas'd, prefer oblivion to disgrace.

§117. Epiftolary Verfes to George Colman, Efq.
written in the Year 1756. By Mr. ROBERT
LLOYD.

You know, dear George, I'm none of thofe
That condefcend to write in profe:
Infpir'd with pathos and fublime,
I always foar-in doggrel rhyme;
And scarce can ask you how you do,
Without a jingling line or two.
Befides, I always took delight in
What bears the name of eafy writing;
Perhaps the reafon makes it please
Is, that I find 'tis writ with ease.

I vent a notion here in private,
Which public tafte can ne'er connive at,
Which thinks no wit or judgment greater
Than Addifon, and his Spectator;
Who fays (it is no matter where,
But that he fays it I can swear)
With eafy verfe moft bards are fmitten,
Because they think it 's easy written;
Whereas, the eafier it appears,
The greater marks of care it wears;
Of which to give an explanation,
Take this, by way of illustration:
The fam'd Mat. Prior, it is faid,
Oft bit his nails, and fcratch'd his head,
And chang'd a thought a hundred times,
Because he did not like the rhymes:
To make my meaning clear, and please ye,
In fhort, he labour'd to write easy.
And yet no Critic e'er defines
His poem's into labour'd lines.
I have a fimile will hit him;
His verfe, like clothes, was made to fit him;
Which (as no taylor e'er denied)
The better fit the more they 're tried.

Though I have mentioned Prior's name,
Think not 1 aim at Prior's fame.
'Tis the refolt of admiration
To spend itfelf in imitation;
If imitation may be faid,
Which is in me by nature bred,
And you have better proots than these

That I'm idolater of Eafe.

Who, but a madinan would engage
A Poet in the prefent age?
Write what we will, our works befpeak us
Imitatores, fera um Pecus.
Tale, Flegy, or lofty Ode,
We travel in the beaten road:
The proverb till ticks closely by us,
Nil dictum, quod non dictum prius.
The only comfort that i know
Is, that 'twas faid an age ago,
Ere Milton fear'd in thought fublime,
Ere Pope rein'd the chink of rhyme,

Ere

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