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Truth ftamps conviction in your ravish'd breast,
And peace and joy attend the glorious guest.
Truth ftill is one; truth is divinely bright,
No cloudy doubts obscure her native light;
While in your thoughts you find the least debate,
You may confound, but never can translate.
Your ftyle will this through all disguises show,
For none explain more clearly than they know.
He only proves he understands a text,
Whofe expofition leaves it unperplex'd.
They who too faithfully on names infift,
Rather create than diffipate the mist
And grow unjust by being over-nice,
(For fuperftitious virtue turns to vice.)
Let Craffus's + ghost and Labienus tell
How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell.
Since Rome hath been fo jealous of her fame,
That few know Pacorus' or Monæfes' name.
Words in one language elegantly us'd,.

Will hardly in another be excus’d..

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And fome that Rome admir'd in Cæfar's time,.
May neither fuit our genius nor our clime.

The genuine fenfe, intelligibly told,

Shews a tranflator both discreet and bold,

Excurfions are inexpiably bad;

And 'tis much fafer to leave out than add.
Abftrufe and myftic thoughts you must express
With painful care, but feeming eafinefs;

For truth fhines brighteft through the plaineft dress..

† Hor. 3, Od. vi.

Th' Encan

Th' Enean Muse, when she appears in state,
Makes all Jove's thunder on her verses wait.
Yet writes fometimes as foft and moving things
As Venus fpeaks, or Philomela fings.

Your author always will the best advise,
Fall when he falls, and when he rifes rife.
Affected noife is the most wretched thing,
That to contempt can empty scriblers bring.
Vowels and accents, regularly plac'd,
On even fyllables (and ftill the last)
Though grofs innumerable faults abound,
In fpite of nonfenfe, never fail of found.
But this is meant of even verfe alone,
As being most harmonious and most known:
For if you will unequal numbers try,
There accents on odd fyllables must lie.
Whatever fifter of the learned Nine

Does to your fuit a willing ear incline,
Urge your fuccefs, deferve a lasting name,
She'll crown a grateful and a conftant flame.
But, if a wild uncertainty prevail,

And turn your veering heart with every gale,
You lofe the fruit of all your former care,
For the fad profpect of a juft despair.

A quack (too fcandalously mean to name)
Had, by man-midwifery, got wealth and fame :
As if Lucina had forgot her trade,

The labouring wife invokes his furer aid.
Well-feafon'd bowls the goffip's spirits raise,

Who, while fhe guzzles, chats the doctor's praife;


And largely, what fhe wants in words, fupplies,
With maudlin-eloquence of trickling eyes.
But what a thoughtlefs animal is man!
(How very active in his own trepan!)
For, greedy of phyficians frequent fees,
From female mellow praise he takes degrees;
Struts in a new unlicens'd gown, and then
From faving women falls to killing men.
Another fuch had left the nation thin,
In spite of all the children he brought in.
His pills as thick as hand-granadoes flew ;
And where they fell, as certainly they flew ;
His name ftruck every where as great a damp,
As Archimedes through the Roman camp.
With this, the doctor's pride began to cool;
For fmarting foundly may conyince a fool.
But now repentance came too late for grace;
And meagre Famine star'd him in the face :
Fain would he to the wives be reconcil'd,
But found no husband left to own a child.
The friends, that got the brats, were poison'd too ;,.
In this fad cafe, what could our vermin do?
Worry'd with debts and past all hope of bail,
Th' unpity'd wretch lies rotting in a jail :
And there with basket-alms, scarce kept alive, `
Shews how mistaken talents ought to thrive.

I pity, from my foul, unhappy men,
Compell'd by want to prostitute their pen;
Who muft, like lawyers, either ftarve or plead,
And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead!


But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pamper'd heirs,
Who to your country owe your swords and cares,
Let no vain hope your eafy mind feduce,
For rich ill poets are without excufe.

'Tis very dangerous, tampering with a Muse,
The profit's small and you have much to lose;
For though true wit adorns your birth or place,
Degenerate lines degrade th' attainted race.
No poet any paffion can excite,

But what they feel transport them when they write...
Have you been led through the Cumæan cave,
And heard th' impatient maid divinely rave?
I hear her now; I fee her rolling eyes:

And panting; Lo! the god, the god, fhe cries;
With words not hers, and more than human found
She makes th' obedient ghofts peep trembling through

the ground.

But, though we must obey when heaven commands,
And man in vain the facred call withstands,
Beware what fpirit rages. in your breaft;
For ten inspir'd, ten thousand are possest.
Thus make the proper use of each extreme,
And write with fury, but correct with phlegm.
As when the chearful hours too freely pass,
And sparkling wine fmiles in the tempting glass,
Your pulse advises, and begins to beat.
Through every fwelling vein a loud retreat :
So when a Mufe propitiously invites,
Improve her favours, and indulge her flights;


But when you find that vigorous heat abate,
Leave off, and for another fummons wait.
Before the radiant fun, a glimmering lamp,
Adulterate metals to the sterling stamp,
Appear not meaner, than mere human lines,
Compar'd with those whose inspiration shines :
These nervous, bold; thofe languid and remifs ;
There, cold falutes; but here, a lover's kifs.
Thus have I feen a rapid, headlong tide,
With foaming waves the paffive Soane divide;
Whofe lazy waters without motion lay,

While he, with eager force, urg'd his impetuous way.
The privilege that ancient poets claim,

Now turn'd to licenfe by too just a name,
Belongs to none but an establish'd fame,
Which fcorns to take it---

Abfurd expreffions, crude, abortive thoughts,
All the lewd legion of exploded faults,
Bafe fugitives to that afylum fly,

And facred laws with infolence defy.
Not thus our heroes of the former days,
Deferv'd and gain'd their never-fading bays;
For I miftake, or far the greatest part
Of what fome call neglect, was study'd art.
When Virgil feems to trifle in a line,
'Tis like a warning-piece, which gives the sign
To wake your fancy, and prepare your fight,
To reach the noble height of fome unusual flight.
I lose my patience, when with faucy pride,
By untun'd ears I hear his numbers try'd.



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