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EPISTLE

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ROBERT Earl of OXFORD, and Earl MORTIMER.

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UCH were the notes thy once-lov'd Poet fung, 'Till Death untimely ftop'd his tuneful tongue. Oh just beheld! and loft! admir'd and mourn'd! With softeft 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 crowd to quit, And pleas'd to 'scape from Flattery to Wit.

Abfent or dead, ftill let a friend be dear, (A figh the abfent claims, the dead a tear)

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

Recall thofe nights that clos'd thy toilfome days, 15
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,

Who, careless now of Int'reft, Fame, or Fate,
Perhaps forgets that OXFORD e'er was great;
Or deeming meanest 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:
A Soul fupreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all Pain, all Paffion, and all Pride,
The rage of Pow'r, the blaft of public breath,
The luft of Lucre, and the dread of Death.

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In vain to Deferts thy retreat is made;
The Mufe attends thee to thy filent shade:
"Tis hers, the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace.

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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.
Ev'n now, fhe fhades thy Ev'ning-walk with bays,
(No hireling the, no prostitute to praise)

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, Esq. SECRETARY of STATE.

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Soul as full of Worth, as void of Pride, Which nothing feeks to fhew, or needs to hide,

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Which nor to Guilt nor Fear, its Caution owes,
And boasts a Warmth that from no Paffion flows.
A Face untaught to feign; a judging Eye,
That darts fevere upon a rifing Lye,
And ftrikes a blush 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 servile ways,
Nor wish to lose a Foe these Virtues raise;
But candid, free, fincere, as you began,
Proceed-a Minister, 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.

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EPISTLE

To Mr. JERVAS,

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

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HIS Verfe be thine, my friend, nor thou
refufe

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,
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
Read these inftructive 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;
Like them to fhine thro' long fucceeding age,
So just thy skill, fo regular my rage.

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

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