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Or, deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy Fall.

And fure, if aught below the feats divine
Can touch Immortals, 'tis a Soul like thine:
A Soul Supreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all Pain, and Paffion, and all Pride,
The rage of 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 trace,
Rejudge his acts, and dignify difgrace.

When Interest calls off all her fneaking train,
And 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.

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Ev'n now, the fhades thy Evening-walk with bay's $5 (No hireling the, 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 see,

Nor fears to tell, that MORTIMER is he

EPISTLE

EPISTLE

TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

A

SECRETARY OF STATE IN THE YEAR 1720.

Soul as full of Worth, as void of Pride,

Which nothing feeks to fhew, or needs to hide,
Which nor to Guilt, nor Fear, its Caution owes,
And boasts a Warmth that from no Paffion flows.
A Face untaught to feign; a judging Eye,
That darts fevere upon a rifing Lie,

And strikes a blush through frontless Flattery.
All this thou wert; and being this before,
Know, Kings and Fortune cannot make thee more.
Then fcorn to gain a Friend by fervile ways,
Nor wish to lose a Foe thefe Virtues raife;
But candid, free, fincere, as you began,
Proceed-a Minifter, but ftill a Man.
Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
Afham'd of any Friend, not ev'n of Me:
The Patriot's plain, but untrod, path purfue;
If not, 'tis I must be afham'd of You.

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EPISTLE

E PI

STLE

TO MR. JERVAS,

With Mr. DRYDEN's Tranflation of FRESNOY'S Art of Painting.

THIS Epiftle, and the two following, were written fome years before the reft, and originally printed in 1717.

T

HIS Verfe be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse
This, from no venal or ungrateful Muse.
Whether thy hand strike out fome free defign,
Where Life awakes, and dawns at every line;

Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire
Frefnoy's close Art, and Dryden's native Fire :
And reading wifh, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and fo join'd our name;
Like them to shine through long fucceeding age,
So just thy skill, so regular my rage.

Smit with the love of Sifter-Arts we came,
And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;
Like friendly colours found them both unite,
And each from each contract new ftrength and light.
How oft in pleafing tasks we wear the day,
While fummer-funs roll unperceiv'd away!
How oft our flowly-growing works impart,
While Images reflect from art to art!

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How

How oft review; each finding like a friend

Something to blame, and fomething to commend!
What flattering fcenes our wandering fancy wrought,
Rome's pompous glories rifing to our thought!
Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly,
Fir'd with Ideas of fair Italy.

With thee on Raphael's Monument I mourn,
Or wait infpiring Dreams at Maro's Um:
With thee repofe, where Tully once was laid,
Or feek fome Ruin's formidable fhade:

While Fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome anew.

Here thy well-ftudied marbles fix our eye;
A fading Fresco here demands a figh:

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Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare,

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Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air,

Carracci's ftrength, Correggio's fofter line,

Paulo's free ftroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finish'd with illuftrious toil appears

This fmall, well-polifh'd Gem, the work of years! 40
Yet ftill how faint by precept is exprefs'd
The living image in the painter's breast!
Thence endless ftreams of fair Ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, fupplies
An Angel's fweetnefs, or Bridgewater's eyes.

Mufe! at that Name thy facred forrows fhed,
Those tears eternal that embalm the dead;
Call round her Tomb each object of defire,
Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire:

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Bid her be all that chears or softens life,
The tender fifter, daughter, friend, and wife:
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore;
Then view this marble, and be vain no more!

Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage; 55
Her modeft cheek fhall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flower that every season fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Thus Churchill's race fhall other hearts furprize,
And other Beauties envy Worfley's eyes;
Each pleafing Blount shall endless fmiles bestow,
And foft Belinda's blush for ever glow.

Oh, lafting as those Colours may they shine,
Free as thy stroke, yet faultlefs as thy line;
New graces yearly like thy works display,
Soft without weakness, without glaring gay;
Led by fome rule, that guides, but not constrains;
And finish'd more through happiness than pains!
The kindred Arts fhall in their praise conspire,
One dip the pencil, and one ftring the lyre.
Yet fhould the Graces all thy figures place,
And breathe an air divine on every face;
Yet fhould the Mufes bid my numbers roll
Strong as their charms, and gentle as their foul;
With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie,
And these be fung till Granville's Myra die:
Alas! how little from the grave we claim !
Thou but preferv'ft a Face, and I a Name.

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EPISTLE

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