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Shuffles about, fcrews his chop-fallen face,
And no whipp'd gig fo often shifts his place;
Then gives his fage advice with wondrous skill,
Which no man ever heeds, or ever will:
Yet he perfifts, inftructing to confound,

And with his cane points out the dubious ground.
Strong Nimrod now, fresh as the rifing dawn,
Appears; his finewy limbs and folid brawn
The gazing crowd admires. He nor in courts
Delights, nor pompous balls; but rural sports
Are his foul's joy. At the horn's brifk alarms
He shakes th' unwilling Phillis from his arms;
Mounts with the fun, begins his bold career,
To chafe the wily fox or rambling deer.
So Hercules, by Juno's dread command,
From favage beasts and monsters freed the land.
Hark! from the covert of yon gloomy brake
Harmonious thunder rolls, the forests shake!
Men, boys, and dogs, impatient for the chace,
Tumultuous tranfports flush in ev'ry face!
With ears ere&t the courfer paws the ground,

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Hills, vales, and hollow rocks, with chearing cries refound. Drive down the precipice, brave youths! with fpeed;

• Bound o'er the river banks, and smoke along the mead !'
But whither would the devious Mufe purfue.

The pleafing theme, and my paft joys renew?
Another labour now demands thy song.-
Stretch'd in two ranks, behold th'expecting throng,
As Nimrod pois'd the fphere. His arm he drew
Back like an arrow in the Parthian yew,

Then launch'd the whirling globe, and full as fwift it flew :

Bowls dash'd on bowls confounded all the plain;

Safe ftood the foe, well-cover'd by his train.

Affaulted tyrants thus their guard defends,

Efcaping by the ruin of their friends.

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But now he stands expos'd, their order broke,
And feems to dread the next decifive stroke.
So at fome bloody fiege, the pond'rous ball
Batters with ceafelefs rage the crumbling wall,
(A breach once made ;) foon galls the naked town,
Riots in blood, and heaps on heaps are thrown.
Each avenue thus clear'd, with aching heart
Griper beheld, exerting all his art;

Once more refolves to check his furious foe,
Block up the paffage, and elude the blow.
With cautious hand, and with lefs force, he threw
The well-pois'd sphere, that gently circling flew ;
But stopping fhort, cover'd the mark from view.
So little Teucer, on the well-fought field,
Securely fculk'd behind his brother's field.
Nimrod, in dangers bold, whofe heart elate.
Nor courted Fortune's fmiles nor fear'd her hate,
Perplex'd, but not difcourag'd, walk'd around,
With curious eye examin'd all the ground;
Not the least op'ning in the front was found.
Sideway he leans, declining to the right,
And marks his way, and moderates his might.
Smooth gliding o'er the plain th' obedient sphere
Held on it's dubious road, while hope and fear
Alternate ebb'd and flow'd in ev'ry breaft:
Now rolling nearer to the mark it prefs'd;

Then chang'd it's courfe, by the firong bias rein'd,

And on the foe difcharg'd the force that yet remain'd

Smart was the ftroke; away the rival fied:


The bold intruder triumph'd in his ftead.

Victorious Nimrod feiz'd the glitt❜ring prize;


Shouts of outrageous joy invade the fkies:

Hands, tongues, and caps, exalt the victor's fame;
Sabrina's banks return him loud acclaim.


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Their works fhall with the world remain :

Both bound together, live or die;

The verses, and the prophesy.

But who can hope his line should long
Laft in a daily-changing tongue?
While they are new, envy prevails;
And as that dies, our language fails.

When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art:
Time, if we ufe ill-chofen ftone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.

Poets that lafting marble feek,

Muft carve in Latin or in Greek.

We write in fand: our language grows;
And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.

Chaucer his fenfe can only boaft,
The glory of his numbers loft:
Years have defac'd his matchlefs ftrain;
And yet he did not fing in vain. -

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Ipfa varietate tentamus efficere ut alia aliis; quædam fortaffe omnibus placeant.



S when some skilful cook, to please each guest,

Would in one mixture comprehend a feast,

With due proportion and judicious care,

He fills his dish with diff'rent forts of fare;
Fishes and fowls deliciously unite,

To feast at once the taste, the smell, and fight:
So, Bernard! muft a Miscellany be,
Compounded of all kinds of poetry;
The Mufes olio, which all taftes may fit,
And treat each reader with his darling wit.
Wouldst thou for mifcellanies raise thy fame,

And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name,
Let all the Mufes in the piece confpire:

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The Lyrick Bard muft ftrike th' harmonious lyre;

Heroick strains muft here and there be found,

'And nervous sense be fung in lofty found.

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Let Elegy in moving numbers flow,

And fill fome pages with melodious woe:
Let not your am'rous fongs too num'rous prove,
Nor glut thy reader with abundant love.
Satire muft interfere, whofe pointed rage
May lafh the madness of a vicious age:
Satire, the Muse that never fails to hit;
For if there's fcandal, to be fure there's wit.
Tire not our patience with Pindarick lays;
Thofe fwell the piece, but very rarely please:
Let fhort-breath'd Epigram it's force confine,
And ftrike at follies in a fingle line.

Translations fhould throughout the work be fown,
And Homer's godlike Mufe be made our own :
Horace in ufeful numbers should be fung,
And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue.
Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard difdain,

And at her door in melting notes complain :
His tender accents pitying virgins move,
And charm the fift'ning ear with tales of love.
Let ev'ry claffick in the volume shine,
And each contribute to thy great defign:
Thro' various fubjects let the reader range,
And raise his fancy with a grateful change.
Variety's the fource of joy below,
From whence still fresh-revolving pleasures flow.
In books and love the mind one end pursues,
And only change th'.expiring flame renews.

Where Buckingham will condefcend to give,
That honour'd piece to diftant times muft live:
When noble Sheffield ftrikes the trembling strings,
The little loves rejoice, and clap their wings-

• Anacreon live's !" they cry; th' harmonious fwain

• Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted ftrain :

• 'Tis he—our loft Anacreon lives again !.


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