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Diruit, aedificat, mutat quadrata rotundis ?
Insanire putas folennia me, neque rides,
Nec medici credis, nec curatoris egere
A praetore dati; rerum * tutela mearum
Cum fis, et prave sectum ftomacheris ob unguem,
De te pendentis, te respicientis amici.
Ad fummam, sapiens uno Y minor eft Jove, dives,
z Liber, • honoratus, pulcher, ' rex denique regum;
Praecipue fanus, e nisi cum pituita molefta eft.
I plant, root up; 1 build, and then confound;
You never change one muscle of your face, 171
175 Kind to my dress, my figure, not to Me. Is this my * Guide, Philosopher, and Friend? This, he who loves me, and who ought to mend? Who ought to make me (what he can, or none,) That Man divine whom Wisdom calls her own; 180 Great without Title, without Fortune bless'd; Rich Y ev’n when plunder'd, 2 honour'd while op
press’d; Lov'd a without youth, and follow'd without pow'r; At home, tho' exild; free, tho' in the Tower ; In short, that reas'ning, high, immortal Thing, 185 Just « less than Jove, and a much above a King, Nay, half in heav'n- except (what's mighty odd) A Fit of Vapours clouds this Demy-God.
E P I S T O L A
IL admirari, prope res eft una, Numici,
Solaque quae poffit facere et fervare beatum.
Hunc folem, et ftellas, et decedentia certis
Tempora momentis, funt qui e formidine nulla
Imbuti spectent. quid censes, munera terrae ?
Quid, maris extremos Arabas • ditantis et Indos?
NOTES. VER. 3. Dear MURRAY] This piece is the moft finished of all his imitations, and executed in that high manner the Italian Painters call con amore. By which they mean, the exertion of that principle, which puts the faculties on the stretch, and produces the supreme degree of excellence. For the Poet had all the warmth of affection for the great Lawyer to whom it is addressed, and indeed no man ever more deserved to have a Poet for his friend. In the obtaining of which as neither vanity, party, or fear had any share, so he supported his title to it by all the offices of true friendship,
Ver. 4. Creech)] From whose translation of Horace the two firft lines are taken. P.
Ver. 8. trus the Ruler zvith the skies, To bim commit the hour,] Our Author, in these imitations, has been all along careful to correct the loose morals, and absurd divinity of his Original.