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Did not the god my wand'ring pen restrain,
Oxford! the goddess Muse's native home, 420
Ev'n now we hear the world with transports own
Opleasing Shades! O ever green Retreats!
Never may you politer arts refuse,
445 But entertain in peace the bashful Muse! So may you
be kind Heav'n's distinguish'd care, And may your fame be lasting as it is fair! Let greater bards on fam'd Parnafsus dream, Or taite th’inspiring Heliconian stream, 450 Yet whilft our Oxford is the blefs'd abode Of ev'ry Muse and ev'ry tuneful god. Parnassus owns its honours far outdone, And Ifis boasts more bards than Helicon.
A thousand blessings I to Oxford owe, 453 But you my Lord th’inspiring Muse bestow: Grac'd with your name th' unpolish'd poem shines; You guard its faults and consecrate the lines : O! might you here meet my desiring eyes My drooping song to nobler heights wou'd rise; 460 Or might I come to breathe your northern air Yet should I find an equal pleasure there; Your presence would the harsher climate footh, Hush ev'ry wind and ev'ry mountain smooth, Would bid the groves in springing pomp arise, 495.And open charming vistas to the eyes, Would make my trifling verse be heard around, And sportive Echo play the empty found: With you I should a better Phobus find, And ownin you alone the charms ofOxfordjoin'd. 470
TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 1713. What kings henceforth Íhall teign, what states be Is fix'd at length by Anna's juft decree; [free, Whofe brows the Muse's facred wreath shall fit Is left to you the arbiters of wit. With beating hearts the rival poets wait Till you Athenians fhall decide their fate, Secure when to these learned seats they come Of equal judgment and impartial doom.
Poor is the player's fame, whose whole renown Is but the praise of a capricious towni,
IO While with mock majesty and fancy'd pow'r Ho ftrucs in robes, the monarch of an hour! Oft' wide of nature must he act a part, Make love in tropes, in hombast break his heart, Io turn and fimile resigh his breath,
13 And rhyme and quibble in the pangs of death. Wa bluth when plays like these receive applause, And laugh in secret at the tears we cause, With honest scorn our own fuccess dildain, A worthless honour arid inglorious gain.
20 No trifling scenes at Oxford shall appear; Well what we blufi to act may you io hear. To you our fám'd our standard plays we bring, The work of poets whom you taught to sing:
Tho'crown’d with fame they dare not think it due,
Fine is the secret, delicate the art,
COLIN AND LUCY,
Or Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,
Till luckless love and pining care
Oh! have you seen a lily pale
By Lucy warn'd, of fiatt'ring swains
Three times all in the dead of night