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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.

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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,
Which shames composure, and its art excels.
Singing no more can your soft numbers grace,
Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face.
Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep,
Their even calmness does suppose them deep;
Such is

your
muse

: no metaphor swell’d high
With dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky:
Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Shew sand and dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Samson's riddle meet.
'Tis strange each line so great a weight should bear,
And yet no sign of toil, no sweat

appear. Either your art hides art, as stoics feign Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain ;

dull souls, admire, but cannot see
Whát'hidden springs within the engine be:
Or 'tis some 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 spread,
Lets thro 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.

And we,

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