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Or if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit, Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.
He said; but his last words were scarcely 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, Born upwards by a subterranean wind. The mantle fell to the young prophet's part, With double portion of his father's art.
S there is music uninform'd by art
In those wild notes, which with a merry heart The birds in unfrequented shades express, Who, better taught at home, yet please us less :
So in your verse a native sweetness dwells,
: no metaphor swell’d high
appear. Either your art hides art, as stoics feign Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain ;
dull souls, admire, but cannot see