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Part of the NINTH ODE

Of the FOURTH BOOK.

LEST you fhould think that verse shall die,

L'

Which founds the Silver Thames along.

Taught, on the wings of Truth to fly

Above the reach of vulgar song;

Tho' daring Milton fits fublime,
In Spenfer native Muses play;
Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor penfive Cowley's moral lay-

Sages and Chiefs long fince had birth
Ere Cæfar was, or Newton nam'd;

These rais'd new Empires o'er the Earth,

And Those, new Heav'ns and Systems fram'd.

Vain was the Chief's, the Sage's pride!

They had no Poet, and they died.

In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled!
They had no Poet, and are dead.

MISCELLANIES.

EPISTLE

ΤΟ

ROBERT Earl of OXFORD, and Earl MORTIMER.

UCH were the notes thy once-lov'd Poet fung,
'Till Death untimely ftop'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh just beheld! and lost ! admir'd and mourn'd!
With foftest manners, gentleft arts adorn'd!
Bleft in each science, bleft in ev'ry strain !
Dear to the Mufe! to HARLEY dear-in vain!

For him, thou oft hast bid the World attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;
For SWIFT and him, defpis'd the farce of state,
The fober follies of the wife and great;
Dextrous the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleas'd to 'scape from Flattery to Wit.
Abfent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A figh the absent claims, the dead a tear)

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Epift. to Robert Earl of Oxford.] This Epiftle was fent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. Parnell's poems published by our Author, after the faid Earl's Imprisonment in the Tower, and Retreat into the Country, in the Year 1721.

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