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Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
And sure if augbt below the seats divine
In vain to deserts thy retreat is made,
To James Craggs, Esq. Secretary of State. 1720.
A Soul, as full of worth as void of pride, ***- Which nothing seeks to show, or needs to hide, Which nor to guilt nor fear its caution owes, And boasts a warmth that from no passion flows. A face untaught to feign ; a judging eye, That darts severe upon a rising lie, And strikes a blush through fronUess flattery.
All this thou wert; and being this before,
Know kings and fortune cannot make thee more.
Then scorn to gain a friend by servile ways,
Nor wish to lose a foe these virtues raise;
But candid, free, sincere, as you began.
Proceed—a minister, but still a' man.
Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
Asham'd of any friend, not ev'n of me:
The patriot's plain but untrod path pursue;
If not, 'tis I must be asham'd of you.
To Mr. Jervaa, with Mr. Dryden's Translation qf
rjiUiS verse be thine, my friend! nor thou refuse
Smit with the love of sister-arts we came,
* This epistle, and the two following were written some yeari before the rest, and originally printed in 1717*
What flattering scenes our wandering fancy wrought. Home's pompous glories rising to our thought! Together o'er the Alps, methiuks we fly, Fir'd with ideas of fair Italy. With thee on Raphael's monument I mourn. Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro's urn: With thee repose where Tully once was laid, Or seek some ruin's formidable shade. While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view, And builds imaginary Rome anew, Here thy well-studied marbles fix our eye; A fading fresco here demands a sigh: Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare. Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air, Carracci's strength, Correggio's softer line, Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finish'd with illustrious toil appears
Muse I at that name thy sacred sorrows shed
Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage, Her modest cheek shall warm a future age. Beauty, frail flow'r, that every season fears, Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years. Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts surprise, And other beauties envy Worsley's eyes;
* Fresnoy employed above 20 years in finishing his poem. Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles bestow, And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow.
O! lasting as those colours may they shine! Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line; 23 ew graces yearly like thy works display, Soft without weakness, without glaring gay; Led by some rule that guides, but not constrains, And finish'd more through happiness than pains.. The kindred arts shall in their praise conspire. One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. Yet should the Graces all thy figures place, And breathe an air divine on every face; Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul; With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie, And these be sung till Granville's Myra die: Alas! how little from the grave we claim! Thou but preserv'st a face, and I a name.
3b Miss Blount, with the Works of VoUure. 1717.
TN these gay thoughts the loves and graces shine,
-*" And all the writer lives in every line;
His easy art may happy nature seem;
Trifles themselves are elegant in him.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,
Who without flattery pleas'd the fair and great;
Still with esteem no less convers'd than read;
With wit well-natur'd, and with books well-bred:
His heart, his mistress and his friend did share,
His time, the Muse, the witty, and the fair.
Thus wisely careless, innocently gay,
Cheerful he play'd the trifle life away;
Till fate scarce felt his gentle breath supprest,
As smiling infants sport themselves to rest.
Ev'n rival wits did Voiture's death deplore,
And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before;
The truest hearts for Voiture heav'd with sighs;
Voiture was wept by all the brightest eyes:
The smiles and loves had died in Voiture's death, Bat that for ever in his lines they breathe.
Let the strict life of graver mortals be A long, exact, and serious comedy; In every scene some moral let it teach. And, if it can, at once both please and preach: Let mine an innocent gay farce appear, And more diverting still than regular; Have humour, wit, a native ease and grace, Though not too strictly bound to time and place. Critics in wit or life are hard to please; Few write to those, and none can live to these.
Too much your sex is by their forms counn'd. Severe to all, but most to womankind; Custom, grown blind with age, must be your guide; Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride; By nature yielding, stubborn but for fame, Made slaves by honour, and made fools by shame. Marriage may all those petty tyrants chase, Bnt sets up one, a greater, in their place: Weil might you wish for change by those accurst; But the last tyrant ever proves the worst. Still in constraint your suffering sex remains, Or bound in formal or in real chains: Whole years neglected for some months ador'd, The fawning servant turns a haughty lord. Ah ! quit not the free innocence of life For the dull glory of a virtuous wife; Nor let false shews nor empty titles please: Aim not at joy, but rest content with ease.
The gods, to curse Pamela with her pray'rs, Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders' mares, The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state, And, to complete her bliss, a fool for mate. She glares in balls, front-boxes, and the ring, A vain, unquiet, glittering, wretched thing 1 Pride, pomp, and state, but reach her outward part; She sighs, and is no duchess at her heart. Ill