Or if thou would't thy diff'rent talents fuit, Set thy own fongs, and fing them to thy lute. He faid; but his laft words were scarcely heard: For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd, And down they fent the yet declaiming bard. Sinking he left his drugget robe behind, Born upwards by a fubterranean wind. The mantle fell to the young prophet's part, With double portion of his father's art. EPISTLE the FIRST. TO MY HONORED FRIEND Sir ROBERT HOWARD, ON HIS EXCELLENT POEMS. A S there is mufic uninform'd by art In those wild notes, which witha merry heart The birds in unfrequented fhades exprefs, Who, better taught at home, yet please us less: So in your verse a native sweetness dwells, So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet, 'Tis ftrange each line fo great a weight should bear, And yet no fign of toil, no fweat appear. Either your art hides art, as ftoics feign Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain; |