So long in darkness fhut from human kind
Lay half God's wonders to a point confin'd!
But in one peopled drop we now furvey
In pride of power fome little monfter play;
O'er tribes invifible he reigns alone,
And ftruts a tyrant of a world his own.

Now will we ftudy Homer's awful page,
Now warm our fouls with Pindar's noble rage:
To English lays fhall Flaccus' lyre be ftrung,
And lofty Virgil fpeak the British tongue.
Immortal Virgil! at thy facred name

I tremble now,
and now I pant for fame;
With eager hopes this moment I afpire
To catch or emulate thy glorious fire;
The next pursue the rash attempt no more,
But drop the quill, bow, wonder, and adore;
By thy ftrong genius overcome and aw'd!
That fire from heaven! that spirit of a God!
Pleas'd and transported with thy name I tend
Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend;
And from my first design by rapture led,
Neglect the living poet for the dead.

EPISTLE

A I

EPISTLE to Mr. SPENCE,

When Tutor to Lord MIDDLESEX.

In Imitation of HORACE, Book I. Epift. XVIII.
SPENCE, with a friend you pass the hours away.
In pointed jokes, yet innocently gay:

You ever differ'd from a flatterer more,
Than a chafte lady from a flaunting whore.

'Tis true you rallied every fault you found, But gently tickled, while you cur'd the wound a Unlike the paultry poets of the town,

Rogues who expofe themselves for half a crown:
And still impofe on every foul they meet
Rudeness for fense, and ribaldry for wit:

Who, though half-starv'd, in spite of time and place, Repeat their rhymes, though dinner fays for grace: And as their poverty their dreffes fit,

They think of course a floven is a wit:

But fenfe (a truth these coxcombs ne'er suspect)
Lies just 'twixt affectation and neglect.

One step still lower, if you can, descend,

To the mean wretch, the great man's humble friend;
That moving fhade, that pendant at his ear,
That two-legg'd dog, ftill pawing on the peer.
Studying his looks, and watching at the board,
He gapes to catch the droppings of my lord;
And, tickled to the foul at every joke,
Like a prefs'd watch, repeats what t'other spoke:
Echo to nonfenfe! fuch a fcene to hear!
"Tis just like Punch and his interpreter.

T

A

On trifles fome are earneftly abfurd,
You'll think the world depends on ev'ry word.
What, is not every mortal free to speak?
I'll give my reafons, tho' I break my neck.
And what's the question ?—if it fhines or rains,
Whether 'tis twelve or fifteen miles to Staines.

The wretch reduc'd to rags by every vice,
Pride, projects, races, miftreffes, and dice,
The rich rogue fhuns, though full as bad as he,
And knows a quarrel is good husbandry.

'Tis ftrange, cries Peter, you are out of pelf,
I'm fure I thought you wiser than myself;
Yet gives him nothing-but advice too late,
Retrench, or rather mortgage your estate,
I can advance the fum,-'tis best for both;
But henceforth cut your coat to match your cloth.
A minifter, in mere revenge and sport,

Shall give his foe a paltry place at court.
The dupe for every royal birth-day buys
New horfes, coaches, cloaths, and liveries;
Plies at the levee, and distinguish'd there
Lives on the royal whisper for a year;
His wenches fhine in Bruffels and Brocade!
And now the wretch, ridiculously mad,
Draws on his banker, mortgages and fails,
Then to the country runs away from jails :
There ruin'd by the court he fells a vote

To the next burgefs, as of old he bought;
Rubs down the fteeds which once his chariot bore,
Or fweeps the town, which once he ferv'd before.

But,

But, by this roving meteor led, I tend
Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend.
Then take advice; I preach not out of time,
When good lord Middlesex is bent on rhyme.

Their humour check'd, or inclination crofs'd,
Sometimes the friendship of the great is loft.
Unless call'd out to wench, be fure comply,
Hunt when he hunts, and lay the Fathers by:
For your reward you gain his love, and dine
On the best venison and the beft French wine,
Nor to lord ****** make the obfervation,
How the twelve peers have answer'd their creation,
Nor in your wine or wrath betray your trust,
Be filent ftill, and obftinately just :

Explore no fecrets, draw no characters,
For echo will repeat, and walls have ears:
Nor let a bufy fool a fecret know,
A fecret gripes him till he lets it go :

Words are like bullets, and we wish in vain,
When once discharg'd, to call them back again.

*

**

** ** * * * * * * * * ** *

Defend, dear Spence, the honeft and the civil,
But to cry up a rafcal--that's the devil.
Who guards a good man's character, 'tis known,"
At the fame time prote&s and guards his own.
For as with houfes 'tis with people's names,
A fhed may fet a palace all on flames ;
The fire neglected on the cottage preys,
But mounts at laft into a general blaze.
D d

'Tis

'Tis a fine thing, fome think, a lord to know; I wish his tradefmen could but think fo too,

He gives his word--then all your hopes are gone :
He gives his honour-then you're quite undone.
His and fome women's love the fame are found;'
You rafhly board a fireship, and are drown'd.
Moft folks fo partial to themfelves are grown, 11
They hate a temper differing from their own.
The grave abhor the gay, the gay the fad,
And formalifts pronounce the witty mad:
The fot, who drinks fix bottles in a place,
Swears at the flinchers who refuse their glass.
Would you not pass for an ill-natur’d man,
Comply with every humour that you can.

Pope will inftru& you how to pafs away
Your time like him, and never lofe a day;
From hopes or fears your quiet to defend,
To all mankind as to yourfelf a friend,
And, facred from the world, retir'd, unknown,
To lead a life with mortals like his own.
When to delicious Pimperne I retire,
What greater blifs, my Spence, can I defire?
Contented there my easy hours I spend

With maps, globes, books, my bottle, and a friend.
There can I live upon my income still,

E'en though the house fhould pass the Quakers bill:
Yet to my fhare fhould fome good prebend fall,
I think myself of size to fill a stall.

For life or wealth let Heaven my lot affign,
A firm and even foul fhall ftill be mine.