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(His noble houshold-band) advances, And on his milk-white courfer prances.

Thee Forfar to the combat dares,

Grown fwarthy in Iberian wars:

And Monroe kindled into rage

Sourly defies thee to engage;

He'll rout thy foot, though ne'er so many,
And horse to boot-if thou hadft any.
But fee Argyle with watchful eyes,
Lodg❜d in his deep intrenchments lies!
Couch'd like a lion in thy way,
He waits to spring upon his prey;
While, like a herd of tim❜rous deer,
Thy army shakes and pants with fear,
Led by their doughty gen'ral's skill,
From frith to frith, from hill to hill.
Is thus thy haughty promise paid
That to the Chevalier was made,
When thou didst oaths and duty barter
For dukedom, gen'ralship, and garter?
Three moons thy Jemmy fhall command,
With highland scepter in his hand,
Too good for his pretended birth.

Then down fhall fall the king of Perth.'

'Tis fo decreed: for GEORGE fhall reign,

And traitors be forfworn in vain.

Heav'n fhall for ever on him smile,
And bless him still with an Argyle.
While thou, purfu'd by vengeful foes,
Condemn'd to barren rocks and fnows,
And hinder'd paffing Inverlocky,
Shalt burn thy clan, and curfe poor Jocky.

то

Sir GODFREY KNELLER,

T

At his COUNTRY SEAT.

By the Same.

SO Whitton's fhades, and Hounslow's airy plain,

Thou, Kneller, tak'ft thy fummer flights in vain,

In vain thy wifh gives all thy rural hours
To the fair villa, and well-order'd bowers;
To court thy pencil early at thy gates,
Ambition knocks, and fleeting Beauty waits;

The boaftful Mufe, of others' fame so sure,
Implores thy aid to make her own secure;
The great, the fair, and (if aught nobler be,
Aught more belov'd) the Arts folicit thee.

How can't thou hope to fly the world, in vain
From Europe fever'd by the circling main:
Sought by the kings of every diftant land,
And every heroe worthy of thy hand?
Haft thou forgot that mighty Bourbon fear'd
He still was mortal, till thy draught appear'd;
That Cofmo chofe thy glowing form to place
Amidft her mafters of the Lombard race?
See on her Titian's and her Guido's urns,
Her failing arts, forlorn Hefperia mourns;
While Britain wins each garland from her brow,
Her wit and freedom first, her painting now.

Let the faint copier, on old Tyber's fhore,
(Nor mean the task) each breathing bust explore,
Line after line with painful patience trace,

This Roman grandeur, that Athenian grace;

Vain care of parts; if, impotent of soul,

Th' induftrious workman fails to warm the whole!
Each theft betrays the marble whence it came,
And a cold ftatue ftiffens in the frame.

Thee

Thee Nature taught, nor Art her aid deny'd,
(The kindest mistress and the surest guide)
To catch a likeness at one piercing fight,
And place the fairest in the fairest light.
Ere yet the pencil tries her nicer toils,

Or on the palette lie the blended oyls,
Thy careless chalk has half atchiev'd thy art,
And her juft image makes Cleora ftart.

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A mind that grafps the whole is rarely found,
Half learn'd, half painters, and half wits abound
Few, like thy genius, at proportion aim,
All great, all graceful, and throughout the same.
Such be thy life. O fince the glorious rage
That fir'd thy youth, flames unsubdu'd by age;
Though wealth nor fame now touch thy fated mind,
Still tinge the canvas, bounteous to mankind.
Since after thee may rife an impious line,
Coarfe manglers of the human face divine,

Paint on, till fate diffolve thy mortal part,
And live and die the monarch of thy art.

ON

ΟΝ ΤΗ Ε

Death of the Earl of C A DOGAN.

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By the Same.

F Marlb'rough's captains and Eugenio's friends, The laft, CADOGAN to the grave defcends : Low lies each head whence Blenheim's glory fprung, The chiefs who conquer'd, and the bards who fung. From his cold corfe though every friend be fled, Lo! Envy waits, that lover of the dead. Thus did fhe feign o'er Naffau's herse to mourn; Thus wept infidious, Churchill, o'er thy urn; To blast the living, gave the dead their due, And wreaths, herself had tainted, trim'd anew. Thou, yet unnam'd to fill his empty place, And lead to war thy country's growing race, Take every wish a British heart can frame, Add palm to palm, and rife from fame to fame.

An hour must come, when thou fhalt hear with Thyfelf traduc'd, and curfe a thankless age:

rage

Nor

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