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But will not goodness claim regard,
And does not worth deserve reward ?

Docs not their country lic at stake?
Can they do too much for her fake?

Though dreadful be this doom of fate,
Just is that


all: Better this wondrous man should fall, Than a most glorious, virtuous state.



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OW great a curse has Providence

Thought fit to cast on human-kind !
Learning, courage, eloquence,

The gentlest nature, noblest mind,
Were intermixt in one alone ;
Yet in one moinent overthrown.
Could chance, or senseless atoms, join

To form a foul so great as his?
Or would those powers we hold divine,

Destroy their own chief master-piece ?
Where so much difficulty lics,
The doubtful are the only wise.
And, what must more perplex our thoughts,

Great Jove the best of Romans fends,
To do the very worst of faults,
And kill the kindest of his friends.

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UR scene is Athens. And, great Athens nam’d,

What foul so dull as not to be inflam'd ?
Methinks, at mentioning that sacred place,
A reverend awe appears in every face,
For men so fam’d, of such prodigious parts,
As taught the world all sciences and arts.

Amidst all these ye shall behold a man
The molt applauded since mankind began,
Out-hining ev’n those Greeks who most excel,
Whose life was one fix'd course of doing well.
Oh! who can therefore without tears attend
On such a life, and such a fatal end?

But here our author, besides other faults
Of ill expressions, and of vulgar thoughts,
Commits one crime that needs an act of grace,
And breaks the law of unity of place:
Yet to such noble patriots, overcome
By factious violence, and banish'd Rome,
Athens alone a fit retreat could yield ;
And where can Brutus fall, but in Philippi field?

Some critics judge ev'n love itself too mean A care to mix in such a lofty scene, And with those ancient bards of Greece believe Friendship has stronger charms to please or grieve :: But our more amorous poet, finding love Amidst all other cares, still mines above, ! Lets not the best of Romans end their lives Without just softness for the kindest wives, Yet, if ye think his gentle nature fuch As to have soften'd this great tale too much, Soon will your eyes grow dry, and pallion fall, Wien ye reflect ’ris all but conjugal.

This to the few and knowing was addrest;
And now 'tis fit I should salute the rest.

Most reverend dull judges of the pit,
By nature curs'd with the wrong side of wit!
You need not care, what-e'er you fee to-night,
How ill some players act, or poets write;
Should our mistakes be never so notorious,
You'll have the joy of being more cenforious ::
Shew your finall talent then, let that suffice ye ;

grow not vain upon it, I advise ye;
Each petty critic can objections raise,
The greatest skill is knowing when to praise..

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is the maze poor mortals tread;

We little thought, when Cæsar bled,

That a worse Cæfar would succeed,
And are we under such a curse,
We cannot change but for the worse ?

With fair pretence of foreign force,

By which Rome must herself enthral ;
These, without blushes or remorse,

Proscribe the best, impoverish all.
The Gauls themselves, our greatest foes,
Could act no mischiefs worse than those.

That Julius, with ambitious thoughts,

Had virtues too, his foes could find;
These equal him in all his faults,

But never in his noble mind.
That free-born fpirits should obey
Wretches, who know not how to sway!

Late we repent our hafty choice,

In vain bemoan fo quick a tum.
Hark all to Rome's united voice!
Better that we a while had borne

Er'n * See the first and fecond choruses, in the poems of Mr. Pope.

Ev'n all those ills which most displease,
Than fought a cure far worse than the disease.

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UR vows thus chearfully we fing,

While martial music fires our blood ; Let all the neighbouring echoes ring

With olamours for our country's good : And, for reward, of the just gods we ciaim, A life with freedom, or a death with fame. : May Rome be freed from war’s alarms,

And taxes heavy to be borne ; May she beware of foreign arms,

And send them back with noble scorn : And, for reward, &c.

May she no more confide in friends,

Who nothing farther understood, Than only, for their private ends,

To waste her wealth, and spill her blood : And, for reward, &c.

Our senators, great Jove, restrain

From private piques, they prudence call; From the low thoughts of ligle gain,

And hazarding the losing all : And, for reward, &c.

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