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"But write thy best and top; and in each line
"Sir Formal's oratory will be thine.

"Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill
"And does thy northern dedications fill.
"Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame
"By arrogating Jonson's hostile name;
"Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise
"And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.



"Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part;
"What share have we in nature or in art?
"Where did his wit on learning fix a brand
"And rail at arts he did not understand?
"Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein
"Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain?
"When did his Muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,
"As thou whole Etheridge dost transfuse to thine?
"But so transfused as oil on waters flow,
"His always floats above, thine sinks below.
"This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
"New humours to invent for each new play:
"This is that boasted byas of thy mind,



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By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined, "Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,

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And, in all changes, that way bends thy will. "Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence "Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense. "A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ, "But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit. "Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;

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Thy tragic Muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep. "With whate'er gall thou sett'st thy self to write,

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"Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command "Some peacefull province in Acrostick land.

"There thou may'st wings display and altars raise, "And torture one poor word ten thousand ways;

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Or, if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit, "Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute." He said, but his last words were scarcely heard,






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What passion cannot Musick raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the corded shell,

His list'ning brethren stood around,

And, wond'ring, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound;

Less than a god they thought there cou'd not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly, and so well.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?


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The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.


Sharp violins proclaim


Their jealous pangs and desperation,

Fury, frantick indignation,

Depth of pains and height of passion,


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Aloft in awful state

The godlike hero sate

On his imperial throne;

His valiant peers were plac'd around,

Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound;

(So shou'd desert in arms be crown'd.)

The lovely Thais, by his side,

Sate like a blooming Eastern bride,

In flow'r of youth and beauty's .pride.

Happy, happy, happy pair!

None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair.


Timotheus, plac'd on high

Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre ;
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heav'nly joys inspire.





The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the pow'r of mighty love.)

A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god;
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia press'd,


And while he sought her snowy breast;

Then round her slender waste he curl'd,

And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'raign of the world.

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The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young.

The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;

Flush'd with a purple grace

Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes.

He shews his honest face;

Bacchus, ever fair and young,

Drinking joys did first ordain;

Bacchus blessings are a treasure,

Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;
Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure,

Sweet is pleasure after pain.


Sooth'd with the sound the king grew vain

Fought all his battails o'er again;

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain.

The master saw the madness rise,

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heaven and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride.






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