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Your Horace owns, he various writ,

As wild or fober maggots bit:

And, where too much the Poet ranted,

The fage Philofopher recanted.

His grave Epiftles may difprove
The wanton Odes he made to love.
Lucretius keeps a mighty pother
With Cupid and his fancy'd nother;
Calls her great Queen of Earth and Air,
Declares that Winds and Seas obey her
And, while her honour he rehearses,
Implores her to infpire his verfes.

Yet, free from this poetic madefs,

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Next page he fays, in fober fadnefs,
That the and all her Fellow-gods
Sit idling in their high abodes,
Regardless of this world below,

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Our health or hanging, weal or woe;
Nor once disturb their heavenly fpirits
With Scapin's cheats, or Cæfar's merits.
Nor e'er can Latin Poets prove
Where lies the real Seat of Love.
Jecur they burn, and Cor they pierce,
As either beft fupplies their verfe;
And, if folks afk the reafon for 't,
Say, one was long, and t' other fhort.
Thus, I prefume, the British Mufe
May take the freedom strangers use.
In profe our property is greater:
Why should it then be less in metre?

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If

If Cupid throws a single dart,

We make him wound the lover's heart:

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But, if he takes his bow and quiver;
'Tis fure, he must transfix the liver :
For rhyme with reafon may dispense;
And found has right to govern fenfe.

But let your friends in verfe fuppofe,
What ne'er fhall be allow'd in prose;
Anatomifis can make it clear,

The liver minds his own affair;

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Elfe we should want both gibe and fatyr;
And all be burft with pure good-nature.

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Now gall is bitter with a witness ;

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And Love is all delight and sweetness.

My logic then has loft its aim,

If fweet and bitter be the fame :

And, he, methinks, is no great scholar,

Who can miftake defire for choler.

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The like may of the beart be faid;

Courage and terror there are bred.

All thofe, whofe hearts are loofe and low,

Start, if they hear but the tattoo :

And mighty physical their fear is;

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For, foon as noife of combat near is,

Their heart, defcending to their breeches,
Muft give their ftomach cruel twitches.

But

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Thofe hours, when they are tir'd with fighting?
And has no man, but who has kill'd

A father, right to get a child?
Thefe notions then I think but idle;

And Love fhall ftill poflefs the middle.
This truth more plainly to difcover,

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Suppofe your Hero were a Lover.
Through he before had gall and rage,

Which Death or Conquest muft affwage!

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He grows difpirited and low;

He hates the fight, and fhuns the foe,

In fcornful floth Achilles flept;

And for his wench, like Tall-boy, wept:

Nor would return to war and flaughter;

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Till they brought back the Parton's daughter.
Antonius fled from Actium's coaft,

Auguftus preffing, Afia loft:

His fails by Cupid's hands unfurl'd,

To keep the fair, he gave the world.
Edward our Fourth, rever'd and crown'd,
Vigorous in youth, in arms renown'd;

While England's voice, and Warwick's care,
Defign'd him Gallia's beauteous heir;

Chang'd peace

and

power, for rage

Only to dry one widow's tears.—

France's fourth Henry we may fee

A fervant to the fair d'Eftree;

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and wars,

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When, quitting Coutras' profperous field,
And Fortune taught at length to yield,
He from his guards and midnight tent
Difguis'd o'er hills and vallies went,
To wanton with the fprightly dame;
And in his pleasure loft his fame.

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Bold is the critic who dares prove

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Thefe Heroes were no friends to Love;

And bolder he, who dares aver,

That they were enemies to war.

Yet, when their thought should, now or never,

'Have rais'd their heart, or fir'd their liver;

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Fond Alma to thofe parts was gone,

Which Love more justly calls his own.

Examples I could cite you more;

But be contented with these four :

For, when one's proofs are aptly chosen,

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Four are as valid as four dozen.

One came from Greece, and one from Rome;

The other two grew nearer home.

For

For fome in ancient books delight;
Others prefer what moderns write :
Now I fhould be extremely loth,

Not to be thought expert in both.

CANTO

UT fhall we take the Mufe abroad,

BUT

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To drop her idly on the road?
And leave our fubject in the middle;
As Butler did his bear and fiddle?
Yet he, confummate mafter, knew
When to recede, and where purfue:
His noble negligences teach
What others toils defpair to reach.
He, perfect dancer, climbs the rope,
And balances your fear and hope :
If, after fome diftinguish'd leap,
He drops his pole, and feems to flip;
Straight gathering all his active strength,
He rifes higher half his length.
With wonder you approve his flight;
And owe your pleasure to your fright.
But like poor Andrew I advance,
Falfe mimic of my master's dance;
Around the cord a while I fprawl;
And thence, though low, in earnest fall.
My preface tells you, I digrefs'd:
He's half abfolv'd who has confefs'd.

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