EPISTLE IV.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

PAUL METHUEN, ESQ.

THAT 'tis encouragement makes science spread,
Is rarely practis'd, though 'tis often faid.
When learning droops and fickens in the land,
What patron's found, to lend a faving hand?
True generous fpirits profperous vice deteft,
And love to cherish virtue when diftreft:
But, ere our mighty lords this scheme purfue,
Our mighty lords must think and act like you.
Why muft we climb the Alpine mountain's fides,
To find the feat where harmony refides?
Why touch we not fo foft the filver lute,
The cheerful hautboy, and the mellow flute ?
'Tis not th' Italian clime improves the found;
But there the patrons of her fons are found.
Why flourish'd verfe in great Auguftus' reign?
He and Mæcenas lov'd the Mufe's ftrain.
But now that wight in poverty must mourn
Who was (O cruel ftars!) a poet born.
Yet there are ways for authors to be great;
Write rancorous libels to reform the ftate:
Or, if choose more fure and ready ways,
Spatter a minifter with fulfome praise :

you

* Afterwards Sir Paul, K. B.

Launch

Launch out with freedom, flatter him enough;
Fear not-all men are dedication proof.
Be bolder yet, you muft go farther ftill,
Dip deep in gall thy mercenary quill.
He, who his pen in party-quarrels draws,
Lifts an hir'd bravo to support the cause ;
He must indulge his patron's hate and spleen,
And ftab the fame of those he ne'er had feen.
Why then should authors mourn their desperate case?
Be brave, do this, and then demand a place.
Why art thou poor? Exert the gifts to rise,
And banish timorous virtue from thy eyes.

All this feems modern preface, where we're told
That wit is prais'd, but hungry lives and cold:
Against th' ungrateful age these authors roar,
And fancy learning ftarves because they're poor.
Yet why should learning hope fuccess at court?
Why should our patriots virtue's cause support?
Why to true merit should they have regard?
They know that virtue is its own reward.
Yet let not me of grievances complain,
Who (though the meaneft of the Muses' train).
Can boaft fubfcriptions to my humble lays,
And mingle profit with my little praise.

Afk Painting, why she loves Hefperian air?
Go view, the cries, my glorious labours there;
There in rich palaces I reign in state,
And on the temples lofty domes create.
The nobles view my works with knowing eyes,
They love the science, and the painter prize.

N 4

Why

Why didft thou, Kent, forego thy native land,
To emulate in picture Raphael's hand?

Think'ft thou for this to raise thy name at home?
Go back, adorn the palaces of Rome;

There on the walls let thy juft labours fhine,
And Raphael live again in thy defign.
Yet ftay awhile; call all thy genius forth,
For Burlington unbiafs'd knows thy worth;
His judgment in thy mafter-ftrokes can trace
Titian's ftrong fire, and Guido's fofter grace.
But, oh, confider, ere thy works appear,

Canft thou unhurt the tongue of Envy hear?
Cenfure will blame; her breath was ever spent
To blaft the laurels of the eminent.

While Burlington's proportion'd columns rife,
Does not he ftand the gaze of envious eyes?
Doors, windows, are condemn'd by paffing fools,
Who know not that they damn Palladio's rules.
If Chandos with a liberal hand bestow,
Cenfure imputes it all to pomp and show;
When, if the motive right were understood,
His daily pleasure is in doing good.

Had Pope with groveling numbers fill'd his page, Dennis had never kindled into

rage.

'Tis the fublime that hurts the critic's ease;
Write nonfenfe, and he reads and fleeps in peace.
Were Prior, Congreve, Swift, and Pope, unknown,
Poor flander-felling Curll would be undone.
He, who would free from malice pass his days,
Muft live obfcure, and never merit praise.

But

But let this tale to valiant virtue tell

The daily perils of deferving well.

A crow was ftrutting o'er the stubbled plain, Just as a lark defcending clos'd his ftrain.

The crow bespoke him thus, with folemn_grace:

Thou most accomplish'd of the feather'd race! "What force of lungs! how clear! how fweet you fing! "And no bird foars upon a ftronger wing."

The lark, who scorn'd soft flattery, thus replies:
« True, I fing sweet, and on strong pinion rise ;
"Yet let me pass my
life from envy free,
"For what advantage are these gifts to me?
"My fong confines me to the wiry cage,
"My flight provokes the falcon's fatal rage,
"But, as you pass, I hear the fowlers say,
"To fhoot at crows is powder flung away.'

EPISTLE

EPISTLE V.

TO HER GRACE

HENRIETTA, DUTCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH,

E

1722.

XCUSE me, madam, if amidst your tears A Mufe intrudes, a Mufe who feels your cares; Numbers, like mufic, can ev'n grief control, And lull to peace the tumults of the foul. If partners in our woes the mind relieve, Confider for your lofs ten thousands grieve; Th' affliction burthens not your heart alone; When Marlborough died, a nation gave a groan. Could I recite the dangerous toils he chofe, To blefs his country with a fixt repofe; Could I recount the labours he o'ercame, To raife his country to the pitch of fame; His councils, fieges, his victorious fights, To fave his country's laws and native rights; No father (every generous heart muft own) Has ftronger fondnefs to his darling fhown. Britannia's fighs a double lofs deplore, Her father and her hero is no more.

Does Britain only pay her debt of tears?

Yes. Holland fighs, and for her freedom fears.
When Gallia's monarch pour'd his wafteful bands,
Like a wide deluge, o'er her level lands,

She