EPISTLE S. EPISTLE THE FIRST. To my honoured Friend Sir ROBERT HOWARD, on his excellent POEMS. AS S there is mufic uninform'd by art In those wild notes, which with a merry heart Their even calmness does suppose them deep; 'Tis ftrange each line fo great a weight should bear, Either your art hides art, as ftoics feign Then leaft to feel, when moft they fuffer pain; And we, dull fouls, admire, but cannot fee Or 'tis fome happiness that still pursues Could e'er produce fo beautiful a world. Great Hercules himfelf could ne'er do more, Of moral knowledge poefy was queen, And still the might, had wanton wits not been ; And gives us hope, that, having feen the days All All will at length in this opinion rest, This is not all; your art the way has found So here our fight obligingly mistakes That wealth, which his your bounty only makes. More for their dreffing, than their substance priz'd. Your curious notes fo fearch into that age, When all was fable but the facred page, That, fince in that dark night we needs must stray, But, what we moft admire, your verfe no lefs Ere our weak eyes difcern'd the doubtful ftreak Of light, you faw great Charles his morning break. So fkilful feamen ken the land from far, Which fhews like mifts to the dull passenger. To Charles your Muse first pays her duteous love, With Monk you end, whose name preferv'd shall be, Who thought it greater honour to obey His country's intereft, than the world to sway. Is the peculiar talent of your pen : Yet let me take your mantle up, and I Will venture in your right to prophely. "This work, by merit firft of fame fecure, "Is likewife happy in its geniture: "For, fince 'tis born when Charles afcends the throne, "It fhares at once his fortune and its own." EPISTLE THE SECON D. To my honoured friend Dr. CHARLETON, on his learned and ufeful works; but more particularly his Treatife of STONE-HENGE, by him restored to the true founder. THE longeft tyranny that ever sway'd, Was that wherein our ancestors betray'd Their free-born reafon to the Stagirite, And made his torch their univerfal light. So truth, while only one supply'd the state, Grew scarce, and dear, and yet fophifticate. Still it was bought, like emp'ric wares, or charms, Hard words feal'd up with Ariftotle's arms. Columbus was the firft that fhook his throne; And found a temperate in a torrid zone: The feverish air fann'd by a cooling breeze, The fruitful vales fet round with fhady trees; And guiltless men, who danc'd away their time, Fresh as their groves, and happy as their clime. Had we still paid that homage to a name, Which only God and nature justly claim; The western feas had been our utmost bound, Where poets ftill might dream the fun was drown'd: And all the ftars that fhine in fouthern skies, Had been admir'd by none but savage eyes. Among th' afferters of free reason's claim, Our nation's not the leaft in worth or fame. The |