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EPISTLE

то

ROBERT Earl of OXFORD, and Earl MORTIMER.

UCH were the notes thy once-lov'd Poet fung,

SUCH

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'Till Death untimely ftop'd his tuneful tongue. Oh just beheld! and loft! admir'd and mourn'd! With fofteft manners, gentleft arts adorn'd! Bleft in each science, bleft in ev'ry strain! Dear to the Mufe! to HARLEY dear---in vain! For him, thou oft haft bid the World attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For SWIFT and him, defpis'd the farce of state, The fober follies of the wife and great; Dextrous, the craving, fawning croud to quit, And pleas'd to 'fcape from Flattery to Wit.

NOTES.

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Epift. to Robert Earl of Oxford.] This Epiftle was fent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. Parnelle's Poems published by our Author, after the faid Earl's Imprisonment in the Tower, and Retreat into the Country, in the Year 1721. P.

Abfent or dead, ftill let a friend be dear,

(A figh the abfent claims, the dead a tear)
Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilsome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,

Who, careless now of Int'rest, Fame, or Fate,
Perhaps forgets that OXFORD e'er was great;
Or deeming meaneft what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy Fall.

And fure, if aught below the feats divine
Can touch Immortals, 'tis a Soul like thine:

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A Soul fupreme, in each hard inftance try'd,
Above all Pain, all Paffion, and all Pride,
The rage of Pow'r, the blast of public breath, 25
The luft of Lucre, and the dread of Death.
In vain to Deferts thy retreat is made;

The Muse attends thee to thy filent fhade:
'Tis hers, the brave man's lateft fteps to trace,
Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace.

When Int'reft calls off all her fneaking train,
And all th' oblig'd defert, and all the vain ;
She waits, or to the fcaffold, or the cell,
When the last ling'ring friend has bid farewel.

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Ev'n now, she shades thy Ev'ning-walk with bays, (No hireling the, no proftitute to praise)

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Ev'n now, obfervant of the parting ray,

Eyes the calm Sun-fet of thy various Day,
Thro' Fortune's cloud one truly great can fee,
Nor fears to tell, that MORTIMER is he.

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EPISTLE

To JAMES CRAGGS, Efq. SECRETARY of STATE.

A

Soul as full of Worth, as void of Pride,

Which nothing feeks to fhew, or needs to hide,

Which nor to Guilt nor Fear, its Caution owes, And boafts a Warmth that from no Paffion flows.

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A Face untaught to feign; a judging Eye,
That darts fevere upon a rifing Lye,
And ftrikes a blufh thro' frontless Flattery.
All this thou wert, and being this before,
Know, Kings and Fortune cannot make thee more.
Then fcorn to gain a Friend by fervile ways,
Nor wish to lose a Foe thefe Virtues raise ;
But candid, free, fincere, as you began,
Proceed---a Minifter, but still a Man.
Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
Afham'd of any Friend, not ev'n of Me:
The Patriot's plain, but untrod, path pursue;
If not, 'tis I must be afham'd of You.

Secretary of State] In the Year 1720. P.

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EPISTLE

To Mr. JERVAS,

With Mr. DRYDEN'S Translation to FRESNOY'S Art of Painting.

HIS Verfe be thine, my friend, nor thou

TH

refuse

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This, from no venal or ungrateful Muse.
Whether thy hand ftrike out fome free defign,
Where Life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mafs, 5
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
Read these instructive leaves, in which confpire
Fresnoy's close Art, and Dryden's native Fire:
And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and fo join'd our name; 10
Like them to shine thro' long fucceeding age,
So just thy skill, fo regular my rage.

NOTES.

Epift. to Mr. Jervas.] This Epiftle, and the two following, were written fome years before the reft, and originally printed in 1717.

P.

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