But let no alien Sedley interpofe,

To lard with wit thy hungry Epfom profe.

And when falfe flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst cull,

Trust nature, do not labour to be dull;

But write thy beft, and top; and, in each line,

Sir Formal's oratory will be thine:

Sir Formal, though unfought, attends thy quill,
And does thy northern dedications fill.
Nor let falfe friends feduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Jonson's hoftile name.

Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praife,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.

Thou art my blood, where Jonfon has no part:
What fhare have we in nature or in art?

Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,
And rail at arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in prince Nicander's vein,
Or fwept the duft in Pfyche's humble ftrain?
Where fold he bargains, whip-stitch, kiss my arfe,
Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce?
When did his Mufe from Fletcher fcenes purloin,
As thou whole Etherege doft transfuse to thine?
But fo transfus'd, as oil and waters flow,
His always floats above, thine finks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humours to invent for each new play:
This is that boasted bias of thy mind,
By which, one way, to dulnefs 'tis inclin'd:
Which makes thy writings lean on one fide still,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.

Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,
But fure thou 'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;
Thy tragic Mufe gives fmiles, thy comic fleep.
With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write,
Thy inoffenfive fatires never bite.

In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen Iambics, but mild Anagram.

Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command,
Some peaceful province in Acrostic land.
There thou mayft wings difplay and altars raise,
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
Or if thou wouldst thy different talents fuit,
Set thy own fongs, and fing them to thy lute.
He faid; but his laft words were fcarcely heard:
For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd,
And down they sent the yet declaiming bard.
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind,
Borne upwards by a fubterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,
With double portion of his father's art.

}

EPIS

EPISTLE S.

EPISTLE THE FIRST. To my honoured Friend Sir ROBERT HOWARD, on his excellent POEMS.

As there is mufic uninform'd by art

In those wild notes, which with a merry heart
The birds in unfrequented fhades express,
Who, better taught at home, yet please us lefs :
So in your verse a native sweetness dwells,
Which fhames compofure, and its art excels.
Singing no more can your
foft numbers grace,
Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face.
Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep,
Their even calmnefs does fuppofe them deep;
Such is your Mufe: no metaphor fwell'd high
With dangerous boldness lifts her to the iky:
Thofe mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Shew fand and dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a ftrength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Samfon's riddle meet.

'Tis ftrange each line fo great a weight should bear,
And yet no fign of toil, no sweat appear.

Either your art hides art, as ftoics feign
Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain ;
And we, dull fouls, admire, but cannot fee
What hidden fprings within the engine be :

Or 'tis fome happiness that still pursues
Each act and motion of your graceful Muse.
Or is it fortune's work, that in your
head
The curious net that is for fancies fpread,
Lets through its meshes every meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair
To be the child of chance, and not of care.
No atoms cafually together hurl'd

Could e'er produce fo beautiful a world.
Nor dare I fuch a doctrine here admit,
As would destroy the providence of wit.
'Tis your ftrong genius then which does not feel
Thofe weights, would make a weaker spirit reel.
To carry weight, and run fo lightly too,
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.

Great Hercules himfelf could ne'er do more,
Than not to feel those heavens and gods he bore.
Your eaûer odes, which for delight were penn'd,
Yet our inftruction make their fecond end:
We're both enrich'd and pleas'd, like them that woo
At once a beauty, and a fortune too.

Of moral knowledge poefy was queen,

And still he might, had wanton wits not been;
Who, like ill guardians, liv'd themselves at large,
And, not content with that, debauch'd their charge.
Like fome brave captain, your fuccefsful pen
Reftores the exil'd to her crown again :

And gives us hope, that, having feen the days
When nothing flourish'd but fanatic bays,

All

All will at length in this opinion reft,
"A fober prince's government is best.”

This is not all; your art the way has found

To make th' improvement of the richest ground,
That foil which thofe immortal laurels bore,
That once the facred Maro's temples wore.
Eliza's griefs are fo exprefs'd by you,
They are too eloquent to have been true.
Had fhe fo fpoke, Æneas had obey'd
What Dido, rather than what Jove had said.
If funeral rites can give a ghost repose,
Your Mufe fo juftly has difcharged those,
Eliza's fhade may now its wandering cease,
And claim a title to the fields of peace.
But if Æneas be oblig'd, no lefs
Your kindness great Achilles doth confess;
Who, drefs'd by Statius in too bold a look,
Did ill become thofe virgin robes he took.

To understand how much we owe to you,
We must your numbers, with your author's, view:
Then we shall see his work was lamely rough,
Each figure ftiff, as if defign'd in buff:
His colours laid fo thick on every place,
As only fhew'd the paint, but hid the face.
But as in perspective we beauties fee,
Which in the glafs, not in the picture, be;
So here our fight obligingly mistakes

That wealth, which his your bounty only makes.
Thus vulgar dishes are, by cooks difguis'd,

More for their dreffing, than their substance priz’d.

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Your