Or if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit, Set thy own fongs, and fing them to thy lute. He said; but his last words were scarcely heard: For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd, And down they sent the yet declaiming bard. Sinking he left his drugget robe behind, Born upwards by a fubterranean wind. The mantle fell to the young prophet's part, With double portion of his father's art. EPISTLE the FIRST. TO MY HONORED FRIEND Sir ROBERT HOWARD, ON HIS EXCELLENT POEMS. A S there is mufic uninform'd by art In those wild notes, which with a merry heart The birds in unfrequented shades express, Who, better taught at home, yet please us less: So in your verse a native sweetnefs dwells, fo So firm a ftrength, and yet withal so sweet, Did never but in Samfon's riddle meet. 'Tis strange each line fo great a weight should bear, And yet no fign of toil, no sweat appear. Either your art hides art, as ftoics feign Then least to feel, when moft they fuffer pain; |