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His life, though long, to sickness past unknown,
His death was instant, and without a groan.
O grant me thus to live, and thus to die!
Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I.
O Friend! may each domestic bliss be thine!
Be no unpleasing melancholy mine;
Me let the tender office long engage
To rock the cradle of reposing age,

With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, 410
Make Languor smile, and smooth the bed of Death,
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep awhile one parent from the sky!
On cares like these, if length of days attend,
May Heav'n, to bless those days, preserve my friend!
Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene,
And just as rich as when he serv'd a Queen!
A. Whether that blessing be deny'd or giv'n,
Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heav'n,

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HE occasion of publishing these Imitations was the clamor raised on some of my Epistles. An answer from Horace was both more full and of more dignity than any I could have made in my own person; and the example of much greater freedom in so eminent a divine as Dr. Donne, seemed a proof with what indignation and contempt a Christian may treat vice or folly in ever so low, or ever so high a station. Both these authors were acceptable to the princes and ministers, under whom they lived. The Satires of Dr. Donne I versified at the desire of the Earl of Oxford, while he was Lord Treasurer, and of the Duke of Shrewsbury, who had been Secretary of State; neither of whom looked upon a satire on vicious courts as any reflection on those they served in. And indeed there is not in the world a greater error than that which fools are so apt to fall into, and knaves with good reason to encourage, the mistaking a sa

tirist for a libeller; whereas, to a true satirist, nothing is so odious as a libeller; for the same reason as to a man truly virtuous nothing is so hateful as a hypocrite:

Uni aequus virtuti atque ejus amicis.

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WHOEVER expects a paraphrase of Horace, or

a faithful copy of his genius, or manner of writing, in these Imitations, will be much disappointed. Our Author uses the Roman poet for little more than his canvas; and if the old design or coloring chance to suit his purpose, it is well; if not, he employs his own, without scruple or ceremony. Hence it is he is so frequently serious, where Horace is in jest, and at ease, where Horace is disturbed. In a word, he regulates his movements no farther on his original, than was necessary for his concurrence in promoting their common plan of reformation

of manners.

Had it been his purpose merely to paraphrase an

ancient satirist, he had hardly made choice of Horace with whom, as a poet, he held little in common, besides a comprehensive knowledge of life and manners, and a certain curious feli. city of expression, which consists in using the simplest language with dignity, and the most ornamented with ease. For the rest, his har

mony and strength of numbers, his force and splendor of coloring, his gravity and sublimity of sentiment, would have rather led him to another model. Nor was his temper less unlike that of Horace, than his talents. What Horace would only smile at, Mr. Pope would treat with grave severity of Persius: and what Mr. Pope would strike with the caustic lightning of Juvenal, Horace would content himself by turning into ridicule.

If it be asked, then, why he took any body at all

to imitate, he has informed us in his Advertisement; to which we may add, that this sort of Imitations, which are of the nature of Parody, throws reflected grace and splendor on original wit. Besides, he deemed it more modest to give the name of Imitations to his Satires, than, like Despreaux, to give the name of Satires to Imitations.

HORAÇE, BOOK II. SAT. I.

IMITATED.

TO MR. FORTESCUE.

P. THERE are, (I scarce can think it, but am told)

There are to whom my Satire seems too bold;
Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough,

And something said of Chartres much too rough.
The lines are weak, another s pleas'd to say ;
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a-day.
Tim'rous by nature, of the rich in awe,
I come to counsel learned in the law:

You'll give me, like a friend, both sage and free,
Advice;
and (as you use) without a fee.

F. I'd write no more.

P. Not write? but then I think,

And for my soul I cannot sleep a wink.
I nod in company, I wake at night,
Fools rush into my head, and so I write.

F. You could not do a worse thing for your life.
Why, if the nights seem tedious-take a wife;
Or rather, truly, if your point be rest,
Lettuce and cowslip wine probatum est.
But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise
Hartshorn, or something shat shall close your eyes.
Or if you needs must write, write Cæsar's praise;
You'll gain, at least, a knighthood, or the bays.

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