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By the next post I will fuch ftories tell,
As, join'd to these, shall to a volume fwell;
As true as heaven, more infamous than hell.
But you are tir'd, and fo am I. Farewell.

AN EPISTOLARY ESSAY From Lord ROCHESTER to Lord MULGRAVE,

UPON

THEIR MUTUAL POEMS.

DEAR friend, I hear this town does fo abound

In faucy cenfurers, that faults are found

With what of late we, in poetic rage
Bestowing, threw away on the dull age.
But (howfoe'er envy their spleen may raise,
To rob my brows of the deserved bays)
Their thanks, at least, I merit; fince through me
They are partakers of your poetry.

And this is all I'll fay in my defence,

T'obtain one line of your well-worded fenfe,
I'll be content t' have writ the " British Prince."
I'm none of those who think themselves infpir'd,
Nor write with the vain hope to be admir'd;
But from a rule I have (upon long trial)
T' avoid with care all fort of felf-denial.
Which way foe'er defire and fancy lead,
(Contemning fame) that path I boldly tread :

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And

And if expofing what I take for wit,

To my dear felf a pleasure I beget,

No matter though the cenfuring critics fret.
These whom my Mufe difpleases are at strife,
With equal spleen, against my course of life ;
The leaft delight of which I'll not forego,
For all the flattering praise man can bestow.
If I defign'd to please, the way were then
To mend my manners, rather than my pen :
The firft's unnatural, therefore, unfit;

And for the second I despair of it,

Since grace is not fo hard to get as wit:
Perhaps ill verses ought to be confin'd,
In mere good-breeding, like unfavoury wind.
Were reading forc'd, I fhould be apt to think,
Men might no more write fcurvily than stink.
I'll own that you write better than I do,
But I have as much need to write as you."
In all I write, fhould fenfe, and wit, and rhyme,
Fail me at once, yet something fo fublime
Shall stamp my poem, that the world may fee,
It could have been produc'd by none but me.
And that's my end; for man can with no more
Than fo to write, as none e'er writ before;
Yet why am I no poet of the times?
I have allufions, fimilies, and rhymes,
And wit; or elfe 'tis hard that I alone, .

Of the whole race of mankind, fhould have none.
Unequally the partial hand of heaven"

Has all but this one only bleffing given.

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The

The world appears like a great family,
Whofe lord, opprefs'd with pride and poverty,
(That to a few great bounty he may fhow)
Is fain to ftarve the numerous train below.
Juft fo feems Providence, as poor and vain,
Keeping more creatures than it can maintain :
Here 'tis profufe, and there it meanly faves,
And for one prince, it makes ten thousand flaves.
In wit alone 't has been magnificent,

Of which so just a fhare to each is fent,

That the most avaricious are content.

For none e'er thought (the due divifion 's fuch)
His own too little, or his friend's too much.
Yet moft men fhew, or find, great want of wit,
Writing themselves, or judging what is writ.
But I, who am of fprightly vigour full,
Look on mankind as envious and dull.

Born to myself, I like myself alone,

And must conclude my judgment good, or none:
For could my fense be naught, how should I know
Whether another man's were good or no?

Thus I refolve of my own poetry,

That 'tis the best; and there's a fame for me..
If then I'm happy, what does it advance,
Whether to merit due, or arrogance ?

Oh, but the world will take offence hereby!
Why then the world fhall fuffer for 't, not I.
Did e'er this faucy world and I agree,
To let it have its beafly will on me?

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Why

For wits are treated just like common whores,
Firft they're enjoy'd, and then kick'd out of doors:
The pleasure paft, a threatening doubt remains,
That frights th' enjoyer with fucceeding pains.
Women, and men of wit, are dangerous tools,
And ever fatal to admiring fools.

Pleasure allures; and when the fops escape,
'Tis not that they are lov'd, but fortunate;
And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate.
But now, methinks, fome formal band and beard
Takes me to task: come on, Sir, I'm prepar'd.
Then, by your favour, any thing that 's writ,
Against this gibing, gingling knack, call'd Wit,
Likes me abundantly; but you'll take care,
Upon this point, not to be too fevere,
Perhaps my Muse were fitter for this part;
For, I profefs, I can be very smart
On wit, which I abhor with all my heart.
I long to lafh it in fome fharp effay,
But your grand indifcretion bids me stay,
And turns my tide of ink another way.
What rage ferments in your degenerate mind,
To make you rail at reason and mankind?
Bleft glorious man, to whom alone kind heaven
An everlasting foul hath freely given;
Whom his great Maker took fuch care to make,
That from himself he did the image take,
And this fair frame in fhining reafon dreft,
To dignify his nature above beast:

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Reafon,

Reason, by whose aspiring influence,

We take a flight beyond material sense,
Dive into mysteries, then foaring pierce
The flaming limits of the universe,

Search heaven and hell, find out what 's acted there,
And give the world true grounds of hope and fear.
Hold, mighty man, I cry; all this we know
From the pathetic pen of Ingelo,
From Patrick's Pilgrim, Sibb's Soliloquies,
And 'tis this very reason I despise

This fupernatural gift, that makes a mite
Think he's the image of the Infinite;
Comparing his fhort life, void of all reft,
To the Eternal and the Ever-bleft:

This bufy puzzling ftirrer up of doubt,
That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out,
Filling with frantic crowds of thinking fools,
The reverend bedlams, colleges and schools,
Borne on whose wings, each heavy fot can pierce
The limits of the boundless univerfe.
So charming ointments make an old witch fly,
And bear a crippled carcafe through the sky.
'Tis this exalted power, whofe bufinefs lies
In nonsense and impoffibilities :
This made a whimsical philofopher,
Before the fpacious world his tub prefer;
And we have many modern coxcombs, who
Retire to think, 'cause they have nought to do.
But thoughts were given for actions' government,
Where action ceafes, thought's impertinent.
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