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Smit with the love of Sister-Arts we came, And met congenial, mingling flame with fame; Like friendly colours found them both unite, And each from each contract new ftrength and
light. How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day, White summer-funs roll unperceiv'd away? How oft' our flowly-growing works impart, While Images reflect from art to art? How oft review; each finding like a friend Something to blame, and something to commend? What flatt'ring scenes our wand'ring fancy
wrought, Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought! Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly, 25 Fir'd with Ideas of fair Italy. With thee, on Raphael's Monument I mourn, Or wait inspiring Dreams at Maro's Urn: With thee repose, where Tully once was laid, Or seek fome Ruin's formidable shade:
30 While fancy brings the vanifhd piles to view, And builds imaginary Rome a-new, Here thy well-ftudy'd marbles fix our eye; A fading Fresco here demands a ligh: Each heav'nly piece unwearied we compare, 35 Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air, Caracci's frength, Correggio's softer line, Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine. VOL. VI.
How finish'd with illuftrious toil appears This small, well-polish'd Gem, the * work of years! Yet ftill how faint by precept is expreft
Muse! at that Name thy facred forrows shed,
Yet ftill her charms in breathing paint engage; 55 Her modest cheek shall warm a future age. Beauty, frail flow'r that ev'ry season fears, Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years. Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts surprize, And other Beauties envy Worsley's eyes ;
60 Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles beftow, And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow.
Oh lafting as those Colours may they shine, Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line ;
* Fresnoy employed above twenty years in finishing his Poem,
New graces yearly, like thy works display,
65 Soft without weakness, without glaring gay; Led by some rule, that guides, but not constrains ; And finish'd more thro' happiness than pains. The kindred Arts shall in their praise conspire, One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. 70 Yet should the Graces all thy figures place, And breathe an air divine on ev'ry face; Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul; With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vié, 75 And these be sung 'till Granville's Myra dye: Alas! how little from the grave we claim! Thou but preserv'it a Face, and I a Name.
E P I S T L E
To Miss BLOUNT.
With the WORKs of VOITURE.
N these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shire,
And all the Writer lives in ev'ry line ; His easy Art may happy Nature seem, Trifles themselves are elegant in him. Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,
5 Who without flatt'ry pleas'd the fair and great ; Still with esteem no less convers'd than read; With wit well-natur'd, and with books well-bred: His heart, his mistress, and his friend did share, His time, the Muse, the witty, and the fair. Thus wisely careless, innocently gay, Chearful he play'd the trifle, Life, away ; 'Till fate scarce felt his gentle breath fuppreft, As smiling Infants sport themselves to rest. Ev’n rival Wits did Voiture's death deplore,
15 And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before; The truest hearts for Voiture heav'd with fighs, Voiture was wept by all the brightest Eyes : The Smiles and Loves had dy'd in Voiture's death, But that for ever in his lines they breathe.
Let the strict life of graver mortals be
Too much your Sex is by their forms copfind, Severe to all, but most to Womankind; Custom, grown blind with Age, must be your guide; Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride; By Nature yielding, stubborn but for fame; 35 Made Slaves by honour, and made Fools by shame. Marriage may all those petty Tyrants chase, But sets up one, a greater in their place; Well might you wish for change by those accurft, But the last Tyrant ever proves the worst. Still in constraint your suff'ring Sex remains, Or bound in formal, or in real chains : Whole years neglected, for some months ador'd, The fawning Servant turns a haughty Lord, Ah quit not the free innocence of life,
45 For the dull glory of a virtuous Wife; Nor let false Shews, nor empty Titles please: Aim not at Joy, but rest content with Ease,