None ever can without admirers live,
Who have a penfion or a place to give.
Great minifters ne'er fail of great deferts;
The herald gives them blood; the poet, parts.
Senfe is of course annex'd to wealth and power;
No Mufe is proof against a golden shower.
Let but his lordship write fome poor lampoon,
He's Horac'd up in doggrel like his own:
Or, if to rant in tragic rage he yields,

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Falfe Fame cries-Athens; honest Truth-Moorfields.
Thus fool'd, he flounces on through floods of ink;
Flags with full-fail; and rises but to fink.

Some venal pens fo proftitute the bays,
Their panegyrics lash; their satires praise.
So naufeously, and so unlike, they paint,
N's an Adonis; Mr, a faint.
Metius with thofe fam'd heroes is compar'd,
That led in triumph Porus and Tallard.
But fuch a fhameless Mufe muft laughter move,
That aims to make Salmonius vie with Jove.

To form great works, puts Fate itself to pain;
Ev'n Nature labours for a mighty man,
And, to perpetuate her Hero's fame,
She ftrains no lefs a Poet next to frame.
Rare as the Hero's, is the Poet's rage;
Churchills and Drydens rife but once an age.

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With earthquakes towering Pindar's birth begun;

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And an eclipfe produc'd Alcmena's fon.

The fire of Gods o'er Phoebus caft a fhade;
But, with a hero, well the world repaid.

No

No bard for bribes should prostitute his vein ;
Nor dare to flatter where he should arraign.
To grant big Thrafo valour, Fhormio fenfe,
Should indignation give, at least offence.

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I hate fuch mercenaries, and would try From this reproach to rescue poetry. Apollo's fons fhould fcorn the fervile art, And to court-preachers leave the fulsome part. What then-You'll fay, Muft no true fterling pafs, Because impure allays fome coin debase ? Yes, praife, if justly offer'd, I'll allow ; And, when I meet with merit, fcribble too. The man who's honeft, open, and a friend, Glad to oblige, uneafy to offend ; Forgiving others, to himself fevere;

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Though earnest, eafy; civil, yet fincere ;

Who feldom but through great good-nature errs;

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Detefting fraud as much as flatterers ;

'Tis he my Mufe's homage fhould receive;
If I could write, or Holles could forgive.
But pardon, learned youth, that I decline
Arname fo lov'd by me, fo lately thine."
When Pelham you refign'd, what could repair
A lofs fo great, unless Newcastle's heir?
Hydafpes, that the Afian plains divides,
From his bright urn in pureft crystal glides;

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But, when new-gathering ftreams enlarge his course, 65*
He's Indus nam'd, and rolls with mightier force;
In fabled floods of gold his current flows,

And wealth on nations, as he runs, beftows.

Direc

Direct me, Clare, to name fome nobler Mufe, That for her theme thy late recefs may choose ; Such bright defcriptions fhall the fubject dress, Such vary'd fcenes, fuch pleafing images,

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That fwains fhall leave their lawns, and nymphs their bowers,

And quit Arcadia for a feat like yours.

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But fay, who fhall attempt th' adventurous part
Where Nature borrows drefs from Vanbrugh's art ?
If, by Apollo taught, he touch the lyre,
Stones mount in columns, palaces aspire,
And rocks are animated with his fire.
'Tis he can paint in verse those rising hills,
Their gentle vallies, and their filver rills;
Close groves, and opening glades with verdure spread,
Flowers fighing fweets, and shrubs that balfam bleed;
With gay variety the profpect crown'd,

And all the bright Horizon smiling round.
Whilft I attempt to tell how ancient Fame
Records from whence the Villa took its name.

In times of old, when Britifh nymphs were known

To love no foreign fashions like their own;

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When drefs was monftrous, and fig-leaves the mode, 90 And quality put on no paint but woad;

Cf Spanish red unheard was then the name

(For cheeks were only taught to blush by fhame);

No beauty, to incrcafe her crowd of flaves,

Rofe out of wafh, as Venus out of waves;
Not

yet lead-comb was on the toilet plac'd;
Not yet broad eye-brows were reduc'd by paste ;

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No

No fhape-fmith fet up shop, and drove a trade
To mend the work wife Providence had made;
Tires were unheard of, and unknown the loom,
And thrifty filkworms fpun for times to come;
Bare limbs were then the marks of modefty;
All like Diana were below the knee.

The men appear'd a rough, undaunted race,
Surly in fhow, unfashion'd in addrefs;
Upright in actions, and in thought sincere ;
And ftrictly were the fame they would appear.

Honour was plac'd in probity alone;

For villains had no titles but their own.
None travel'd to return politely mad ;
But ftill what fancy wanted, reafon had,
Whatever Nature afk'd, their hands. could give;
Unlearn'd in feafts, they only eat to live.
No cook with art increas'd phyficians' fees:
Nor ferv'd up Death in foups and fricafees:
Their tafte was, like their temper, unrefin'd;
For looks were then the language of the mind.
Ere right and wrong, by turns, fet prices bore;
And confcience had its rate like common whore;
Or tools to great employments had pretence;
Or merit was made out by impudence ;
Or coxcombs look'd affuming in affairs;

And humble, friends grew haughty ministers;
In those good days of innocence, here stood

Of oaks, with heads unfhorn, a folemn wood,
Frequented by the Druids, to bestow
Religious honours on the Miffeltoe.

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The

The naturalists are puzzled to explain, How trees did first this stranger entertain; Whether the bufy birds ingraft it there; Or else fome deity's myfterious care,

13。

As Druids thought; for, when the blasted oak 'By lightning falls, this plant efcapes the ftroke.

So, when the Gauls the towers of Rome defac'd,
And flames drove forward with outrageous waste,
Jove's favour'd capitol uninjur'd stood:

So facred was the manfion of a God.

Shades honour'd by this plant the Druids chofe,
Here, for the bleeding victims, altars rose.
To Hermes oft' they paid their facrifice;

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Parent of arts, and patron of the wise.

Good rules in mild perfuafions they convey'd;

Their lives confirming what their lectures faid.
None violated truth, invaded right;

Yet had few laws, but will and appetite.

The people's peace they studied, and profest
No politicks but public intereft.

Hard was their lodging, homely was their food;
For all their luxury was doing good.

No mitre'd prieft did then with princes vie,

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Nor o'er his mafter claim fupremacy;

Nor were the rules of faith allow'd more pure,
For being feveral centuries obfcure.

None loft their fortunes, forfeited their blood,

For not believing what none understood.

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Nor fimony, nor fine-cure, were known;

Nor would the Bee work honey for the Drone.