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TO A PERSON OF HONOUR,

Upon his incomparable, incomprehenfible Poem, intituled, THE BRITISH PRINCES.

IR! you've oblig'd the British nation more,

STR

Than all their Bards could ever do before;
And, at your own charge, monuments as hard
As brafs or marble, to your fame have rear'd.
For, as all warlike nations take delight
To hear how their brave ancestors could fight;
You have advanc'd to wonder their renown,
And no lefs virtuously improv'd your own:
That 'twill be doubtful, whether you do write,
Or they have acted, at a nobler height.
You, of your antient Princes, have retriev'd
More than the ages knew in which they liv'd:
Explain'd their customs and their rights anew,
Better than all their Druids ever knew:
Unriddled thofe dark oracles, as well

As thofe that made them, could themfelves foretell.
For, as the Britons long have hop'd in vain,
Arthur would come to govern them again:
You have fulfill'd that prophecy alone,
And in your Poem plac'd him on his throne.
Such magic power has your prodigious pen,
To raife the dead, and give new life to men:
Make rival Princes meet in arms and love,
Whom distant ages did fo far remove.
N 2

For,

For, as eternity has neither past

Nor future, authors say, nor first nor last;
But is all inftant; your eternal Muse
All ages can to any one reduce.

Then why fhould you, whose miracles of art
Can life at pleasure to the dead impart,
Trouble in vain your better-bufied head,
T'obferve what times they liv'd in, or were dead?
For, fince you have fuch arbitrary power,

It were defect in judgment to

go lower; Or ftoop to things fo pitifully lewd,

As ufe to take the vulgar latitude.

For no man 's fit to read what you have writ,
That holds not fome proportion with your wit.
As light can no way but by light appear,
He must bring fenfe, that understands it here.

TO MR. CREECH,

On his Tranflation of LUCRETIUS.

WHA

'HAT all men with'd, though few could hope
to fee,

We are now bleft with, and oblig'd by thee.
Thou! from the antient learned Latin store,
Giv'ft us one author, and we hope for more.
May they enjoy thy thoughts!-Let not the Stage
The idleft moment of thy hours engage.

Each year that place fome wondrous monfter breeds,
And the Wits' garden is o'er-run with weeds.
There Farce is Comedy; bombaft call'd strong;
Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.

"Tis hard to fay they steal them now-a-days;
For fure the antients never wrote fuch plays.
These fcribbling infects have what they deserve,
Not plenty, nor the glory for to starve.

That Spenfer knew, that Tafso felt before;
And Death found furly Ben exceeding poor.
Heaven turn the omen from their image here!
May he with joy the well-plac'd laurel wear!
Great Virgil's happier fortune may he find,
And be our Cæfar, like Auguftus, kind!

But let not this disturb thy tuneful head;
Thou writ'ft for thy delight, and not for bread:
Thou art not curft to write thy verse with care;
But art above what other poets fear.

What may we not expect from fuch a hand,

That has, with books, himself at free command?

Thou know'ft in youth, what age has fought in vain ; And bring'st forth fons without a mother's pain.

So eafy is thy fenfe, thy verfe so sweet,

Thy words fo proper, and thy phrase so fit;

We read, and read again: and still admire

[fire!

Whence came this youth, and whence this wondrous
Pardon this rapture, Sir! But who can be

Cold and unmov'd, yet have his thoughts on thee?
Thy goodness may my several faults forgive,
And by your help these wretched lines may live.
But if, when view'd by your severer fight,
They feem unworthy to behold the light;
Let them with speed in deserv'd flames be thrown!
They'll fend no fighs, nor murmur out a groan;
But, dying filently, your justice own.

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THE

TRIPLE

COMBAT.

W

HEN through the world fair Mazarine had run,
Bright as her fellow-traveller, the fun;

Hither at length the Roman eagle flies,
As the last triumph of her conquering eyes.
As heir to Julius, fhe may pretend

A fecond-time to make this island bend.
But Portsmouth, fpringing from the antient race
Of Britons, which the Saxon here did chafe ;
As they great Cæfar did oppofe, makes head,
And does against this new invader lead.
That goodly Nymph, the taller of the two,
Careless and fearless to the field does go.
Becoming blushes on the other wait,

And her young look excufes want of height.
Beauty gives courage; for, fhe knows, the day
Muft not be won the Amazonian way.
Legions of Cupids to the battle come,

For Little Britain these, and those for Rome.
Drefs'd to advantage, this illuftrious pair
Arriv'd, for combat in the list appear.
What may the Fates defign! for never yet
From diftant regions two fuch beauties met.
Venus had been an equal friend to both,
And Victory to declare herself seems loth :
Over the camp with doubtful wings the flies;
Till Chloris fhining in the field she spies.
The lovely Chloris well-attended came,
A thousand Graces waited on the dame:

Her

Her matchlefs form made all the English glad,,
And foreign beauties lefs affurance had.
Yet, like the three on Ida's top, they all
Pretend alike, contefting for the ball.
Which to determine, Love himself declin'd,
Left the neglected should become lefs kind.
Such killing looks! fo thick the arrows fly!
'That 'tis unfafe to be a ftander-by.
Poets, approaching to defcribe the fight,
Are by their wounds instructed how to write.
They with lefs hazard might look on, and draw
The ruder combats in Alfatia:

And, with that foil of violence and rage,

Set off the fplendor of our golden age :

Where Love gives law, Beauty the fceptre sways ; And, uncompell'd, the happy world obeys.

Of an ELEGY made by Mrs. WHARTON. on the Earl of ROCHESTER.

HUS mourn the Mufes! on the hearfe

TH

Not ftrowing tears, but lafting verse;
Which fo preferves the Hero's name,
They make him live again in fame.

Chloris, in lines so like his own,
Gives him fo juft and high renown;
That the th' afflicted world relieves,
And fhews that ftill in her he lives.
Her wit as graceful, great, and good:.
Ally'd in genius, as in blood..

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