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This verse be thine, my friend, nor thou

refuse Thís, from no venal or ungrateful Muse. Whether thy hand strike out some free design, Where life awakes and dawns at every line; Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass, And from the canvas call the mimic face: Read these instructive leaves, in which

conspire Fresnoy's close Art, and Dryden's native fire; And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and

fame, So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name: Like them to shine through long-succeeding

age, So just thy skill, so regular my rage,

• First printed in 1716,

Smit with the love of Sister-Arts we came And met congenial, mingling flame with


Like friendly colours found them both unite, And each from each contract new strength

and light. How oft in pleasing tasks .we wear the day, While summer suns roll unperceiv'd away? How oft our slowly-growing works impart, While images reflect from art to art?' How oft review ; each finding like a friend, Something to blame, and something to


What flatt'ring scenes our wand'ring fancy

wrought, Rome's pompous glories rising toourthought! Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly, Fir'd with ideas of fair Italy. With thee, on Raffaelle's monument I mourn, Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro's urn: With thee repose, where Tully once was laid, Or seek some ruin's formidable shade ; While Fancy brings the vanish'd pile te

view, And builds imaginary Rome anew.



Here thy well-study'd marbles fix our eye;
A fading fresco here demands a sigh:
Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare,
Match Raffaelle's Grace with thy lov'd

Guido's Air,
Caracci's strength, Correggio's softer line,
Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth


How finish'd with illustrious toil appears This small, well-polish'd gem, the work of

years *!

Yet still how faint by precept is exprest
The living image in the Painter's breasts
Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence beauty, waking all her forms,

supplies An Angel's sweetness, or Bridgwater's eyes.

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Muse! at that name thy sacred sorrows shed, Those tears eternal that embalm the dead: Call round her tomb each object of desire,

frame inform’d with purer fire :

Each purer

* Fresnoy employed above twenty years în finishing this Poem.

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Bid her be all that chears or softens life,
The tender sister, daughter, friend and wife!
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore ;
Then view this marble, and be vain no more!

Yet still her charms in breathing paint

Her modest cheek shall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flower, that every season fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts

And other beauties envy Wortley's *eyes,
Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles

bestow, And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow.

Oh! lastingasthose colours may they shine, Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line!

* In one of Dr. Warburton's Editions of Pope, by which copy this has been corrected, the name is changed to Worsley. If that reading be not an error of the press, I suppose the poet altered the name after he had quarrelled with lady M. W. Montague, and being offended at her wit, thus revenged himself on her beauty.


New graces yearly, like thy works display: Soft without weakness, without glaring gay ; Led by some rule, that guides, but not

constrains ; And finish'd more through happiness than

pains ! The kindred Arts shall in their praise conspire, One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. Yet should the graces all thy figures place,

, And breathe an air divine on ev'ry face ; Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll, Strong as their charm, and gentle as their soul; With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgwater vie, And these be sung till Granville's Myra die; Alas! how little from the grave we claim ? Thou but preserv’st a Face, and I a Name.

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