_For Strength consists in Spirits and in Blood, And those are ow'd to generous Wine and Food._ And the Translator's Observation, that the moderate Use of Wine does not raise the Spirits, is not the truer, because it is said by _Hector_, the Son of _Priam_. Father _Sirmond_, a sober reverend as well as learned Priest says quite another Thing: Si bene commemini causæ sint quinque bibendi, Hospitis Adventus, præsens Sitis, atque futura, Et Vini bonitas, & quælibet altera Causa. _If all be true_, &c. Whoever reads an Author with Exactness cannot fail of meeting with several Passages, where Self-love, Humour, Party, or Complexion, are uppermost. Thus a good Catholick will never have a good Word for a Heretick, nor a _Puritan_ for a _Papist_. Dr. _Ch----_ will never speak well of Punch, nor Dr. _Mand----_ of Watergruel. He who writes well is jealous of him who judges well, and he who judges well envies him who writes well. The _Swifts_ turn every Thing into Grimace, the _Whistons_ into Mathematicks, and whatever touches an Author's own Taste, he is always recommending to his Reader. We all remember how the Duke of _Malborough_ was treated by the blessed Peace-makers for beating their Friends the _French_. _Delight in War_ was a Mark set upon him in a most solemn Manner, and a memorable Instance of our Wisdom and Gratitude. There is a Paraphrase upon it in the Version of _Homer_; and when the Application is made will turn the _Epick_ into Satyr. _Curs'd is the Man, and void of Law and Right, Unworthy Property, unworthy Light; Unfit for publick Rule or private Care, That Wretch, that Monster who delights in War; Whose Lust is Murder, and whose horrid Joy To tear his Country_, &c. To _tear_ a Country is very much in Heroicks. The Image of _Discord_ has good Lines in it; but methinks they would not have been the Worse, if they had been heated a little in _Milton_'s Furnace: _Discord, dire Sister of the slaughtering Pow'r, Small at her Birth,_ but rising ev'ry Hour; _While scarce the Skies her horrid Head can bound, She stalks on Earth, and_ shapes _the World around: The Nations bleed, where e'er her Steps she turns, The Groan still deepens, and the Combat burns._ I refer to the Judgement of the Reader, whether the following Image of Discord taken from a modern burlesque Poem, has not more of the Epick in it: Non tulit invisæ speciem Discordia Pacis, Ilicet horrentes ad fibila concitat hydros, Ulcisci jubet Ira nefas. Spumantia felle Ora tument, micat ex oculis ardentibus Ignis. _Discord enrag'd at the Approach of Peace Made her Snakes hiss, and urg'd to dire Revenge. Her foaming Mouth of horrid Poison full, From her red Eyes she darted Flakes of Fire._