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in my power to be informed of my errors by my friends and my enemies. And that I expect no favour on account of my youth, business, want of health, or any fuch idle excuses. But the true reafon they are not yet more correct is owing to the confideration how fhort a time they, and I have to live.

A man that can expect but fixty years may be afhamed to employ thirty in meafuring fyllables and bringing fenfe and rhyme together. We spend our youth in pursuit of riches or fame, in hopes to enjoy them when we are old; and when we are old, we find it is too late to enjoy any thing. I therefore hope the Wits will pardon me; if I referve fome of my time to fave my foul; and that fome wife men will be of my opinion, even if I fhould think a part of it better spent in the enjoyments of life than in pleafing the critics.

On Mr. POPE and his Poems,

By His GRACE

JOHN SHEFFIEL D,

Duke of BUCKINGHAM.

ITH Age decay'd, with Courts and bus'nefs tir'd,

WITH

Caring for nothing but what Ease requir'd;
Too dully ferious for the Mufe's fport,
And from the Critics fafe arriv'd in Port;
I little thought of launching forth agen,
Amidit advent'rous Rovers of the Pen;
And after fo much undeferv'd fuccefs,
Thus hazarding at laft to make it lefs.
Encomiums fuit not this cenforious time,
Itfelf a Subject for fatiric thyme;
Ignorance honour'd, Wit and Worth defam'd,
Folly triumphant, and ev'n Homer blam'd!
But to this Genius, join'd with fo much Art,
Such various Learning mix'd in ev'ry part,
Poets are bound a loud applause to pay;
Apollo bids it, and they must obey.

And yet fo wonderful, fublime a thing,

As the great ILIAD, fcarce could make me fing';

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Except I juftly could at once commend
A good Companion, and as firm a Friend.
One moral, or a mere well-natur'd deed
Can all defert in Sciences exceed.

'Tis great delight to laugh at some mens ways, But a much greater to give Merit praise.

To Mr. POPE, on his Paftorals.

thefe more dull, as more cenforious days,

I when few dare give, and fewer inerit praife,

A Mufe fincere, that never Flatt'ry knew,
Pays what to friendship and defert is due
Young, yet judicious; in your verfe are found
Art ftrength'ning Nature, Sense improv'd by Sound.
Unlike thofe Wits, whofe numbers glide along
So fmooth, no thought e'er interrupts the fong:
Laboriously enervate they appear,

And write not to the head, but to the ear:
Our minds unmev'd and unconcern'd they lull,
And are at best most musically dull:
So purling treans with even murmurs creep,
And hufh the heavy hearers into fleep.
As fmootheft fpeech is most deceitful found,
The fmootheft nuinbers oft. are empty found.
But Wit and Judgment join at once in you,
Sprightly as Youth, as Age confummate too;

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Your strains are regularly bold, and please
With unforc'd care, and unaffected eafe,
With proper thoughts, and lively images:
Such as by Nature to the Ancients fhewn,
Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own:
For great mens fashions to be follow'd are,
Altho' difgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear.
Some in a polifh'd ftyle write Paftoral,
Arcadia fpeaks the language of the Mall.
Like fome fair Shepherdefs, the Sylvan Mufe,
Should wear thofe flow'rs her native fields produce;
And the true meafure of the shepherd's wit
Should, like his garb, be for the Country fit:
Yer muft his pure and unaffected thought
More nicely than the common fwain's be wrought.
So, with becoming art, the Players dress
In filks the fhepherd, and the Shepherdess;
Yet ftill unchang'd the form and mode remain,
Shap'd like the homely ruffet of the fwain
Your rural Mufe appears to justify
The long loft graces of Simplicity:
So rural beauties captivate our fenfe
With Virgin charms, and native excellence.
Yet long her Modelty thofe charms conceal'd,
'Till by mens Envy to the world reveal'd;
For Wits induftrious to their trouble feem,
And needs will envy what they muft efteem.

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Live and enjoy their fpite! nor mourn that fate, Which would, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait; Whofe Mufe did once, like thine, in plains delight; Thine fhall, like his, foon take a higher flight;

So Larks, which first from lowly fields arise,
Mount by degrees, and reach at laft the fkies.

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W. WYCHERLEY.

To Mr. POPE, on his Windfor-Foreft.

TAIL, facred Bard! a Mufe unkoown before

HAIL,

Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore. To our dark world thy fhining page is shown, And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own. The Eaftern pomp had juft bespoke our care, And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here: A various fpoil adorn'd our naked land, The pride of Perfia glitter'd on our strand, And China's Earth was caft on common fand: Tofs'd up and down the gloffy fragments lay, And drefs'd the rocky fhelves, and pav'd the painted

bay.

:

Thy treasures next arriv'd and now we boast
A nobler cargo on our barren coast:

From thy luxuriant Foreft we receive

More lafting glories than the Eaft can give.

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Where e'er we dip in thy delightful page, What pompous fcenes our bufy thoughts engage! The pompous fcenes in all their pride appear, Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were. Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhows The fylyan ftate that on her border grows,

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