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He that intends to gain th' Olympic prize
Must use himself to hunger, heat, and cold,
Take leave of wine, and the soft joys of love;
And no musician dares pretend to skill,
Without a great expence of time and pains';
But every little bufy fcribbler now

Swells with the praises which he gives himself;
And, taking fanctuary in the crowd,
Brags of his impudence, and scorns to mend.
A wealthy poet takes more pains to hire
A flattering audience, than poor tradefinen do
To perfuade customers to buy their goods.
'Tis hard to find a man of great estate,
That can diftinguish flatterers from friends.
Never delude yourself, nor read your book
Before a brib'd and fawning auditor,
For he 'll commend and feign an extafy,
Grow pale or weep, do any thing to please :
True friends appear lefs mov'd than counterfeit ;
As men that truly grieve at funerals,

Are not fo loud as thofe that cry for hire.

Wife were the kings, who never chose a friend,
Till with full cups they had unmask'd his soul,
And seen the bottom of his deepest thoughts ;
You cannot arm yourself with too much care
Against the smiles of a defigning knave.

Quintilius (if his advice were ask'd)
Would freely tell you what you fhould correct,
Or, if
you could not, bid you blot it out,
And with more care fupply the vacancy;

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But if he found you fond and obftinate
(And apter to defend than mend your faults),
With filence leave you to admire yourself,
And without rival hug your darling book.
The prudent care of an impartial friend
Will give you notice of each idle line,

Shew what founds harfh, and what wants ornament,
Or where it is too lavishly beftow'd;

Make you explain all that he finds obfcure,
And with a strict enquiry mark your faults;
Nor for thefe trifles fear to lofe your love :
Those things which now seem frivolous and flight,
Will be of a moft ferious confequence,
When they have made you once ridiculous.
A poetafter, in his raging fit,

(Follow'd and pointed at by fools and boys)
Is dreaded and profcrib'd by men of sense;
They make a lane for the polluted thing,
And fly as from th' infection of the plague,
Or from a man whom, for a juft revenge,
Fanatic phrenzy fent by heaven purfues.
If (in the raving of a frantic Muse)
And minding more his verses than his way,
Any of these should drop into a well,

Though he might burst his lungs to call for help,
No creature would affift or pity him,

But feem to think he fell on purpose in.
Hear how an old Sicilian poet dy'd;
Empedocles, mad to be thought a god,
In a cold fit leap'd into Ætna's flames.

Give

poets leave to make themselves away,
Why should it be a greater fin to kill,
Than to keep men alive against their will?
Nor was this chance, but a deliberate choice;
For if Empedocles were now reviv'd,
He would be at his frolic once again,
And his pretenfions to divinity:
'Tis hard to fay whether for facrilege,
Or inceft, or fome more unheard-of crime,
The rhyming fiend is fent into these men;
But they are all most visibly possest,

And, like a baited bear when he breaks loose,
Without diftinction feize on all they meet;
None ever fcap'd that came within their reach,
Sticking like leeches, till they burst with blood,
Without remorfe infatiably they read,

And never leave till they have read men dead.

*

**Lord RosCOMMON's verfes on the "Religio "Laici" are printed in the first volume of DRYDEN'S Poems.

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POE M S

BY THE

EARL OF ROCHESTER.

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