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EPISTLE II.

TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ. SECRETARY OF

A

STATE, 1720.

SOUL as full of worth as void of pride,
Which nothing seeks to shew, or needs to hide ;
Which nor to guilt nor fear its caution owes,
And boasts a warmth that from no passion flows.
A face untaught to feign; a judging eye,
That darts severe upon a rising lie,

And strikes a blush through frontless flattery:
All this thou wert; and being this before,
Know, kings and fortune cannot make thee more.
Then scorn to gain a friend by servile ways,
Nor wish to lose a foe these virtues raise ;
But candid, free, sincere, as you began,
Proceed-a minister, but still a man.
Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
Asham'd of any friend, not e'en of me :
The patriot's plain, but untrod, path pursue ;
If not, 'tis I must be asham'd of you.

EPISTLE III.

TO MR. JERVAS,

With Mr. Dryden's Translation of Fresnoy's Art of Painting +

THIS verse be thine, my Friend! nor thou refuse

This, from no venal or ungrateful Muse.

Whether thy hand strike out some free design,
Where life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the color'd mass,
And from the canvass call the mimic face:
Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire
Fresnoy's close art, and Dryden's native fire;
And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name;
Like them to shine through long succeeding age,
So just thy skill, so regular my rage.

Smit with the love of sister arts we came,
And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;
Like friendly colors found them both unite,
And each from each contract new strength and light.
How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day,
While summer's-suns roll unperceiv'd away!
How oft our slowly-growing works impart,
While images reflect from art to art!

This Epistle, and the two following, were written some years before the rest, and originally printed in 1717.

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How oft review, each finding, like a friend,
Something to blame, and something to commend!
What flatt'ring scenes our wand'ring fancy
wrought,

Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought!
Together o'er the Alps, methinks we fly,
Fir'd with ideas of fair Italy.

With thee on Raphael's monument I mourn,
Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro's urn:
With thee repose, where Tully once was laid,
Or seek some ruin's formidable shade.
While Fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome a-new :
Here thy well-studied marbles fix our eye,
And fading fresco here demands a sigh :
Each heav'nly piece, unweary'd, we compare;
Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air;
Caracci's strength; Corregio's softer line;
Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finish'd with illustrious toil, appears
This small, well-polish'd gem, the work of years*!
Yet still how faint, by precept, is exprest
The living image in the painter's breast?
Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, supplies
An Angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes.

Muse! at that name thy sacred sorrow shed,
Those tears eternal that embalm the dead;

+ Fresnoy employed above 20 years in finishing his poem.

Call round her tomb each object of desire, Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire; Bid her be all that cheers or softens life, The tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife; Bid her be all that makes mankind adore, Then view this marble, and be vain no more! Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage, Her modest cheek shall warm a future age. Beauty, frail flow'r! that ev'ry season fears, Blooms in thy colors for a thousand years. Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts surprise, And other beauties envy Worsley's eyes; Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles besto w, And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow.

Oh! lasting as those colors may they shine! Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line; New graces yearly like thy works display, Soft without weakness, without glaring gay; Led by some rule that guides, but not constrains, And finish'd more through happiness than pains: The kindred arts shall in their praise conspire, One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. Yet should the Graces all thy figures place, And breathe an air divine on ev'ry face; Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll, Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul; With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie, And these be sung till Granville's Myra die: Alas! how little from the grave we claim ! Thou but preserv'st a face, and I a name,

EPISTLE IV.

TO MISS BLOUNT,

With the works of Voiture.

In these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shine,

And all the writer lives in ev'ry line;
His easy art may happy nature seem ;
Trifles themselves are elegant in him.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,

Who, without flatt'ry, pleas'd the fair and great;
Still with esteem no less convers'd than read;
With wit well-natur'd, and with books well-bred;
His heart, his mistress and his friend did share,
His time, the Muse, the witty and the fair.
Thus wisely careless, innocently gay,
Cheerful he play'd the trifle, life, away;
Till Fate, scarce felt, his gentle breath supprest,
As smiling infants sport themselves to rest.
Ev'n rival wits did Voiture's death deplore,
And the gay mourn'd, who never mourn'd before;
The truest hearts for Voiture heav'd with sighs;
Voiture was wept by all the brightest eyes:
The Smiles and Laves had dy'd in Voiture's death,
But that for ever in his lines they breathe.
Let the strict life of graver mortals be

A long, exact, and serious comedy;
In ev'ry scene some moral let it teach,
And, if it can, at once both please and preach:

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