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Some overpoise of sway, by turns, they share ; In

peace the people, and the prince in war : Consuls of mod'rate power in calms were made; When the Gauls came, one fole dictator (way'd.

Patriots, in peace, affert the people's right; With noble stubborness resisting might: No lawless mandates from the court receive, Nor lend by force, but in a body give. Such was your gen'rous grandsire ; free to grant In parliaments, that weigh'd their prince's want : But so tenacious of the common cause, As not to lend the king against his laws. And, in a loathsome dungeon doom'd to lie, In bonds retain'd his birthright liberty, And sham'd oppreffion, till it set him free.

O true descendent of a patriot line,
Who, while thou shar'st their lustre, lend'st them

thine,
Vouchsafe this picture of thy soul to see ;
'Tis so far good, as it resembles thee :
The beauties to th'original I owe;
Which when I miss, my own defects I show:
Nor think the kindred muses thy disgrace:
A poet is not born in ev'ry race.
Vol. II.

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Two of a house few ages can afford;
One to perform, another to record.
Praise-worthy actions are by thee embrac'd;
And 'tis my praise, to make thy praises laft.
For ev'n when death diffolves our human frame,
The soul returns to heaven from whence it came;
Earth keeps the body, verse preserves the fame.

EPISTLE the FOURTEENTH.

TO

Sir GODFRÉ Y KNELLER,

Principal PAINTER to his MAJESTY,

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NCE I beheld the fairest of her kind,

And still the sweet idea charms True, she was dumb; for nature gaz'd so long, Pleas'd with her work, that she forgot her ton

tongue; But, smiling, said, She still shall gain the prize; I only have transferr'd it to her

eyes. Such are thy pictures, Kneller : such thy skill, That nature seems obedient to thy will

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Comes out, and meets thy pencil in the draught;
Lives there, and wants but words to speak her

thought.
At least thy pictures look a voice; and we
Imagine sounds, deceiv'd to that degree,
We think ’tis somewhat more than just to see.

Shadows are but privations of the light;
Yet, when we walk, they shoot before the fight;
With us approach, retire, arise, and fall;
Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all.
Such are thy pieces, imitating life
So near, they almost conquer in the strife ;
And from their animated canvass came,
Demanding fouls, and loosen'd from the frame.
Prometheus, were he here, would cast

away
His Adam, and refuse a foul to clay ;
And either would thy noble work inspire,
Or think it warm enough, without his fire.

But vulgar hands may vulgar likeness raise ;
This is the least attendant on thy praise :
From hence the rudiments of art began;
A coal, or chalk, first imitated man:
Perhaps the shadow, tåken on a wall,
Gave outlines to the rude original;

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Ere canvass yet was strain’d, before the grace
Of blended colors found their use and place,
Or cypress tablets first receiv'd a face.

By now degrees the godlike art advanc'd;
As man grew polish'd, picture was inhanc'd :
Grecce added posture, Thade, and perspective;
And then the mimic piece began to live.
Yet perspective was lame, no distance true,
But all came forward in one common view :
No point of light was known, no bounds of art;
When light was there, it knew not to depart,
But glaring on remoter objects play'd;
Not languilh'd, and insensibly decay'd.

Rome rais'd not art, but barely kept alive,
And with old Greece unequally did strive:
Till Goths, and Vandals, a rude northern race,
Did all the matchless monuments deface.
Then all the Muses in one ruin lie,
And rhime began t'enervate poetry.
Thus, in a stupid military state,

and pencil find an equal fate.
Flat faces, such as would disgrace a skreen,
Such as in Bantam’s embassy were seen,
Unrais’d, unrounded, were the rude delight
Of brutal nations, only born to fight.

The pen

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Long time the fifter arts, in iron leep,
A heavy fabbath did supinely keep:
At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise,
Stretch all their limbs, and

eyes.
Thence rose the Roman, and the Lombard line:
One color'd best, and one did best design.
Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part,
But Titian's painting look'd like Virgil's art.

Thy genius gives thee both ; where true design, Postures unforc'd, and lively colors join. Likeness is ever there; but still the best, Like proper thoughts in lofty language dreft: Where light, to fhades descending, plays, not

strives, Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives. Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought : Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought.

Shakespear, thy gift, I place before my fight; With awe, I ask his blessing ere I write With rev'rence look on his majestic face; Proud to be less, but of his godlike race. His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write, And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight : Bids thee, thro me, be bold ; with dauntless breast Contemn the bad, and emulate the best.

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