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warning to the Critics, not to take too much pains for the future to destroy such things as will die of themselves ; and a Memento mori to some of my vain cotemporaries the Poets, to teach them that, when real merit is wanting, it avails nothing to have been encouraged by the great, commended by the erinent, and favour'd by the public in general.

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fcript Preface, A

FTER pag. iv. 1. 6. it followed thus - For

my part, I confess, had 1 seen things in this view at first, the public had never been troubled either with my writings, or with this apology for them. I am sensible how difficult it is to speak of ones self with decency: but when a man must {peak of himself, the best way is to speak truth of himself, or, he may depend upon it, others will do it for him. I'll therefore make this preface a general confession of all my thoughts of my own Poetry, resolving with the same freedom to expose myself, as it is in the power of any other to expose them. In the first place I thank God and nature, that I was born with a love to poetry ; for nothing more conduces to fill up all the intervals of our time, or, if rightly used, to'make the whole course of life entertaining : Cantantes licet usque (minus via lædet.) 'Tis a vast happiness to possess the pleasures of the head, the only pleasures in which a man is fufficient to himself, and the only part of him which, to his fatisfaction, he can employ all day long. The Muses åre amicæ omnium horarum; and, like our gay acquaintance, the best company in the world as long as one expects no real service from them. I confess there was a time when I was in love with myself, and my first productions were the children of self love upon innocence. I had made an Epic Poem, and Panegyrics on all the Princes in Europe, and thought myself the greatest genius that ever

I can't but regret those delightful visions of my childhood, which, like the fine colours we fee when our eyes are shut, are vanished for ever. Mach ny tryals and lad experience have so undeceived me Vol: I. Pref. ka 4)

by

was.

by degrees, that I am utterly at a loss at what rate to value myself. As for fame I shall be glad of any I can get, and not repine at any I miss; and as for vanity, I have enough to keep me from hanging myself, or even from wishing those hanged who would take it away. It was this that made me write. The sense of my faults made me correct: besides that it was as pleasant to me to correct as to write.

At p. v. l. 32. In the first place I own that I have used my best endeavours to the finishing these pieces. That I made what advantage I could of the judgment of authors dead and living; and that I omitted no means in my power to be informed of my errors by my friends and by my enemies. And that I expect no favour on account of my youth, business, want of health, or any such idle excuses. But the true reason they are not yet more correct is owing to the confideration how short a time they and I have to live. A man that can expect but fixty years may be ashamed to employ thirty in measuring fyllables and bringing sense and rhime together. We spend our youth in pursuit of riches or fame, in hopes to enjoy them when we are old ; and when we are old; we find it is too late to enjoy any thing. I therefore hope the Wits will pardon mé, if I reserve some of my time to save my soul; and that some wise men will be of my opinion, even if I should think a part of it better spent in the enjoyments of life than in pleasing the critics.

1

ON

On Mr. POPE and his Poems,

By His GRACE
JOHN SHEFFIELD,

Duke of BUCKINGHAM.

WITH

TITH Age decay'd, with Courts and business

tir'd, Caring for nothing but what Ease requir'd; Too dully ferious for the Muse's sport, And from the Critics safe arriv'd in Port; I little thought of launching forth agen, 5 Amidst advent'rous Rovers of he Pen; And after so much undeserv'd success, Thus hazarding at last to make itl is.

Encomiums fuit not this censorious time, Itself a subject for satiric rhyme ;

IO Ignorance honour'd, Wit and Worth defam'd, Folly triumphant, and ev'n Homer blam'd!

But to this Genius, join'd with so much Art, Such various Learning mix'd in ev'ry part, Poets are bound a loud applause to pay ; 15 Apollo bids it, and they must obey. < And yet so wonderful, sublime a thing, As the great ILIAD, scarcę could make me fing; Except I juftly could at once commend A good Companion, and as firm a Friend.

One

20

a 4

One moral, or a mere well-natur'd deed
Can all desert in Sciences exceed.

'Tis great delight to laugh at some mens ways, But a much greater to give Merit praise.

To Mr. POPE, on his Pastorals. IN N these more dull, as more censorious days,

When few dare give, and fewer merit praise, A Mufe sincere, that never Flatt'ry knew, Pays what to friendship and defert is due. Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found

5 Art strength’ning Nature, Sense improv'd by Sound. Unlike those Wits, whose numbers glide along So sinooth, no thought e'er interrupts the song: Laboriously enervate they appear, And write not to the head, but to the ear: 1 Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull, And are at best most musically dull; So pusling streams with even murmurs creep, And hush the heavy hearers into sleep. As smoothest speech is most deceitful found, 15 The smoothest numbers oft are empty found. But Wit and Judgment join at once in you, Sprightly as Youth, as Age consummate too: Your strains are regularly bold, and please With unforc'd care, and unaffected ease,

20 With proper thoughts, and lively images : Such as by Nature to the Ancients shown, Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own:

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