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When harmony enriches fenfe,

And borrows stronger charms from thence,
When genius fteers by judgment's laws,
When proper cadence, varied pause
Shew nature's strength combin'd with art,
And thro' the ear poffefs the heart;
Then numbers come, and all before
Is bab, dab, fcab-mere rhymes—no more.

Some boaft, which none could e'er impart,
A fecret principle of art,

Which gives a melody to rhyme
Unknown to Bards in antient time.
And BOILEAU leaves it as a rule
To all who enter PHOEBUS' fchool,
To make the metre ftrong and fine,
Poets write first your fecond line.
'Tis folly all No poet flows

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In tuneful verfe, who thinks in profe;

And all the mighty fecret here

Lies in the nicenefs of the ear.

E'en in this measure, when the mufe,
With genuine eafe, her way purfues,
Tho' fhe affect to hide her skill,
And walks the town in defhabille,

Something

Something peculiar will be seen
Of air, or grace, in shape or mien,
Which will, tho' carelefly display'd,
Diftinguish MADAM from her maid.

Here, by the way of critic sample,
I give the precept and example.
Four feet, you know, in ev'ry line
IS PRIOR'S measure, and is mine;
Yet Tafte wou'd ne'er forgive the crime
To talk of mine with PRIOR's rhyme.

Yet, take it on a Poet's word, There are who foolishly have err'd, And marr'd their proper reputation, By sticking close to imitation.

A double rhyme is often fought

At ftrange expence of time and thought;
And tho' fometimes a lucky hit
May give a zeft to BUTLER's wit;
Whatever makes the measure halt
Is beauty feldom, oft a fault.

For when we see the wit and pains,
The twifting of the stubborn brains,
To cramp the fenfe within the bound
Of fome queer double treble found.

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Hard is the Mufe's travail, and 'tis plain
'Tis pinion'd fenfe, and EASE in PAIN;
'Tis like a foot that's wrapt about
With flannel in the racking gout.
But here, methinks, 'tis more than time
To wave both fimile and rhyme;、
For while, as pen and Muses please,
I talk fo much of eafe and ease,
Tho' the words mention'd o'er and o'er,
I scarce have thought of yours before.

'Tis true, when writing to one's friend,
'Tis a rare science when to end,
As 'tis with wits a common fin

To want th' attention to begin.
So, Sir, (at laft indeed) adieu,
Believe me, as you'll find me, true;
And if henceforth, at any time,
APOLLO whispers you in rhyme,
Or Lady Fancy should difpofe
Your mind to fally out in profe,

I fhall receive, with hallow'd awe,

The Mufe's mail from FLEXNEY's draw.

A FA

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

ΤΟ A FRIEND WHO SENT THE AUTHOR
HAMPER OF WINE.

A

Decipit Exemplar vitiis imitabile.

HOR.

FOND

of the loose familiar vein,

Which neither tires, nor cracks the brain,
The Muse is rather truant grown

To buckram works of higher tone;
And tho' perhaps her pow'rs of rhyme,
Might rife to fancies more fublime,
Prefers this easy down-hill road,
To dangerous leaps at five-barr'd ODE,
Or starting in the Claffic race
Jack-booted for an EPIC chace,

That Bard, as other Bards, divine,
Who was a facris to the Nine,
DAN PRIOR I mean, with natural eafe,
(For what's not nature cannot please)
Would fometimes make his rhyming bow,
And greet his friend as I do now;

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And, howfoe'er the critic train
May hold my judgment rather vain,
Allow me one refemblance true,

I have my friend, a SHEPERD too.

You know, dear Sir, the Mufes nine,
Tho' fober Maids are wooed in wine,
And therefore, as beyond a doubt,
You've found my dangling foible out,
Send me nectareous Infpiration,
Tho' others read Intoxication.
For there are those who vainly use
This grand Elixir of the Mufe,
And fancy in their apish fit,
And idle trick of maudlin wit,
Their genius takes a daring flight,

'Bove PINDUS, or PLINLIMMON's height.
Whilft more of madman than of poet,
They're drunk indeed, and do not know it.

The Bard, whofe charming measure flows
With all the native ease of profe,
Who, without flashy vain pretence,
Has beft adorn'd Eternal Sense,
And, in his chearful moral page,
Speaks to mankind in every age;

Tells

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