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Like his, thy critics in th’ attempt are loft:
When most they rail, know then, they envy

In vain they snarl aloof; a noisy croud,
Like womens anger, impotent and loud,
While they their barren industry deplore,
Pass on secure, and mind the goal before.
Old as she is, my muse shall march behind,
Bear off the blast, and intercept the wind.
Our arts are sisters, tho not twins in birth ;
For hymns were sung in Eden's happy earth :
But oh, the painter muse, tho last in place,
Has seiz'd the blessing first, like Jacob's race.
Apelles' art an Alexander found;
And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound;
But Homer was with barren laurel crown'd.

Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I;
But pass we that unpleasing image by.
Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine ;
All pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine.
A graceful truth thy pencil can command;
The fair themselves go mended from thy hand.
Likeness appears


every lineament;
But likeness in thy work is eloquent.
Tho nature there her true resemblance bears,
A nobler beauty in thy piece appears.


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So warm thy work, so glows the gen'rous frame, Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame.

Thou paint'st as we describe, improving still, When on wild nature we ingraft our skill ; But not creating beauties at our will.

But poets are confin'd in narrower space,
To speak the language of their native place : :
The painter widely stretches his command ;
Thy pencil speaks the tongue


land. From hence, my friend, all climates are your own, Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none.

. All nations all immunities will give To make you theirs, where'er you please to live; And not seven cities, but the world would strive.

Sure some propitious planet then did smile, When first

you were conducted to this ifle :
Our genius brought you here, t'inlarge our fame;
For your good stars are ev'ry where the fame.
Thy matchless hand, of ev'ry region free,
Adopts our climate, not our climate thee.

Great Rome and Venice early did impart
To thee th'examples of their wond’rous art.
Those masters then, but feen, not understood,

generous emulation fir'd thy blood : For what in nature's dawn the child admir'd, The youth endeavor’d, and the man acquir’d...

If yet thou hast not reach'd their high degree,
"Tis only wanting to this age, not thee.
Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine,
Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design
A more exalted work, and more divine,
For what a song, or senseless opera
Is to the living lạbor of a play;
Or what a play to Virgil's work would be,
Such is a single piece to history,

But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live :
Kings cannot reign, unless their subjects give;
And they, who pay

the taxes, bear the rule :
Thus thou, sometimes, art fore'd to draw a fool:
But fo his follies in thy posture fink,
The senseless idiot seems at last to think.
Good heaven! that fots and knaves should be so

To with their vile resemblance


remain ! And stand recorded, at their own request, To future days, a libel or a jest !

Else should we see your noble pencil trace
Our unities of action, time, and place;
A whole compos’d of parts, and those the best,

various character exprest: Heroes at large, and at a nearer view; Less, and at distance, an ignobler crew,


While all the figures in one action join,
As tending to complete the main design,

More cannot be by mortal art exprest ;
But venerable age shall add the rest.
For time shall with his ready pencil stand;
Retouch your figures with his ripening hand;
Mellow your colors, and imbrown the teint ;
Add every grace, which time alone can grant ;
To future


And give more beauties than he takes away.

fame convey,

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HOŲ common shore of this poetic town,

Where all theexcrements of wit are thrown, For sonnet, satyr, bawdry, blafphemy, Are emptied, and disburden'd all in thee: The choleric wight untrussing all in rage Finds thee, and lays his load upon thy page :

Thou Julian, or thou wise Vespasian rather,
Dost from this dung thy well pickt guineas gather,
All mischief's thine, transcribing thou wilt stoop,
From lofty Middlesex to lowly Scroop.
What times are thefe, when in the hero's room,
Bow-bending Cupid doth with ballads come,
And little Aston offers to the bum?
Can two such pigmies such a weight fupport,
Two such Tom-Thumbs of satyr in a court ?
Poor George grows old, his mufe worn out of

Hoarsly he sung Ephelia's lamentation.
Less art thou help'd by Dryden's bed-rid age, ,
That drone has lost his sting upon the stage :
Resolve me, poor apostate, this my doubt,
What hope hast thou to rub this winter out?
Know, and be thankful then, for Providence
By me hath sent thee this intelligence.

A knight there is, if thou can'st gain his grace, ,
Known by the name of the hard-favor'd face,
For prowess of the pen renown'd is he,
From Don Quixote descended lineally,
And tho like him unfortunate he

prove, Undaunted in attempts of wit and love. Of his unfinish'd face, what shall I say? But that 'twas made of Adam's own red clay,

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