But why fo large in the great Writer's Praife? More lofty Subjects fhou'd my Numbers raife: In him (Illuftrious Rivalry?) contend, The Stafeman, Patriot, Chriftian, and the Friend! In Joy once join'd, in Sorrow now for Years, Partner in Grief, and Brother of my Tears. TICKELL, accept this Verfe, thy mornful due, Thou farther fhalt the facred Theme pursue; And as thy Strain defcribes the matchless Man, Thy Life shall fecond what thy Muse began. Tho' fweet the Numbers, tho' a Fire Divinè Dart thro' the whole, and burn in ev'ry Line; Who ftrives not for that Excellence he draws, Is ftain'd by Fame, and fuffers from Applaufe. But hafte to thy Illuftrious Task; prepare The Noble Work well trufted to thy Care; The Gift bequeath'd by ADDISON's Command, To CRAGGS made facred by his dying Hand. Collect the Labours, join the various Rays, The scatter'd Light, in one united Blaze; Then bear to him fo true, fo truly lov'd, In Life distinguish'd, and in Death approv'd, Th' Immortal Legacy. He hangs a while Thy Love to him is to thy Country fhown, то ΤΟ Α Young LADY: WITH THE Works of Voiture. By Mr. POPE. N these gay Thoughts the Loves and Graces And all the Writer lives in ev'ry Line; Trifles themselves are elegant in him. Sure to charm all, with his peculiar Fate, Who, without Flatt'ry, pleas'd the Fair and Great; r Still with Efteem no lefs conyers'd than read; Chearful he play'd the Trifle, Life, away, Till Death fcarce felt, did o'er his Pleasures creep, And the Gay mourn'd, who never mourn'd before; Let the ftrict Life of graver Mortals be Have Humour, Wit, a Native Eafe and Grace, Too much your Sex is by their Forms confin'd, Severe to all, but most to Woman-kind: Custom, Custom, grown blind with Age, must be your Guide,' Well might you wish for Change, by thofe accurft, Whole Years neglected, for fome Months ador'd, The fawning Servant turns a haughty Lord. The Go DS, to curfe Pamelia with her Pray'rs, But, Madam, if the Fates withstand, and you Are deftin'd Hymen's willing Victim too; |