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“ Dignum laude virum Musa vetat. mori."


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SUCH were the notes thy once-lov’d Poet fung,

Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh, just beheld, and lost ! admir'd, and mourn'd!
With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd!
Bleft in each science, blest in every strain ;
Dear to the Muse, to Harley dear – in vain!

For him thou oft haft bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend :
For Swift and him, despis’d the farce of state,
The fober follies of the wise and

great ; Dextrous, the craving, fawning croud to quit, And pleas’d to scape from flattery to wit.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear)
Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilsome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays :
Who, careless now, of interest, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;
Or, deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.

And sure, if aught below the feats divine
Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine :

A fout

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A foul supreme, in each hard instance try'dy,
Above alt pain, all anger, and all pride;

rage power, the blast of public breath, The luft of lucre, and the dread of death.

In vain to deserts thy retreat is made;
The Muse attends thee to thy filent shade:
Tis hers, the Brave man's latest steps to traceg
Re-judge his acts, and dignify disgrace,
When interest calls off all her sneaking train,
When all th' oblig'd defert, and all the vain ;.
She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell,
When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.
Ev'n now she shades thy evening-walk with bays,
(No hireling fhe, no prostitute to praise)
Ev’n now obfervant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm sun-fet of thy various day;
Through Fortune's cloud one truly great can fee,
Nor fears to tell, that Mortimer is hie.

Sept. 257 1721



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HAT antient times (those times we fancy wise)

Have left on long record of woman's rise,
What morals teach it, and what fables hide,
What author wrote it, how that author dy'd,
All these I ling. In Greece they fram’d the tale
(In Greece 'twas thought a woman might be frail);
Ye modern beauties! where the Poet drew
His softest pencil, think he dreamt of you;
And, warn’d by him, ye wanton pens beware
How Heaven's concern'd to vindicate the fair.
The case was Hesiod's; be the fable writ;
Some think with meaning, fome with idle wit:
Perhaps 'tis either, as the Ladies, please ;
I wave the contest, and commence the lays.

In days of yore (no matter where or when,
'Twas ere the low creation swarm’d with men)
That one Prometheus, sprung of heavenly birth,
(Our Author's song can witness) liv'd on earth :
He carv'd the turf to mold a manly frame,
And stole from Jove his animating flame.
The fly contrivance o'er Olympus ran,
When thus the Monarch of the Stars began.



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