What _Statues_ are to grace the _Front_ design'd, 360 And how to throw the _meaner Rooms_ behind. Draw the _Main Strokes_ at first, 'twill shew your _Skill_, _Life-Touches_ you may add whene'er you will. Ev'n _Chance_ will sometimes all our _Art_ excel, The _angry Foam_ we ne'er can _hit_ so well. A _sudden Thought_, all beautiful and bright, Shoots in and _stunns_ us with _amazing Light_; Secure the _happy Moment_ e'er 'tis past, Not _Time_ more _swift_, or _Lightning_ flies so fast. All must be _free_ and _easie_, or in vain 370 You _whip_ and _spur_, and the _wing'd Courser_ strain: When _foggy Clouds_ hang _bellying_ in the _Skies_, Or _fleety Boreas_ through th' _Horizon_ flies; He then, whose _Muse_ produces ought that's _fine_, His _Head_ must have a _stronger Turn_ than mine: Like _Sybils Leaves_ the _Train of Thoughts_ are rang'd, Which by _rude Winds_ disturb'd, are _nothing_ if they're chang'd. Or are there too in _Writing softer Hours_? Or is't that _Matter_ nobler _Mind_ o'erpow'rs, Which boasts her _native Liberty_ in vain, 380 In _Mortal Fetters_ and a _Slavish Chain_? _Death_ only can the _Gordian Knot_ divide, } Tho by what secret wondrous _Bands_ 'tis ty'd, } Ev'n _Reason's_ self must own she can't decide: } For as the _rapid Tides_ of _Matter_ turn } We're fann'd with _Pleasure_ or with _Anger_ burn, } We _Love_ and _Hate_ again, we _Joy_ and _Mourn_. } Now the swift _Torrent_ high and headstrong grows, _Shoots_ through the Dykes, and all the Banks _o'erflows_; Strait the _capricious Waters_ backward fly, The _Pebbles_ rake and leave the Bottom _dry_; 390 Watch the _kind Hour_ and seize the _rising Flood_, Else will your _dreggy Poem_ taste of _Mud_. Hence old and batter'd _Hackneys_ of the _Stage_, By long Experience render'd _Wise_ and _Sage_, With pow'rful _Juices_ restive Nature urge, Or else with _Bays_ of old, they _bleed_ and _purge_; Thence, as the _Priestess_ from her _Cave_ inspir'd, When to his _Cell_ the _rancid God_ retir'd, _Double Entendres_ their fond _Audience_ blind, Their _boasted Oracles_ abuse Mankind: 400 _False Joys_ around their _Hearts_ in _Slumbers_ play, And the warm _tingling Blood_ steals fast away; The _Soul_ grows _dizzy_, lost in _Senses Night_, And melts in pleasing _Pain_ and vain _Delight_. Not that the _sowrest Critick_ can reprove The _soft_ the moving _Scenes_ of _Virtuous Love_: _Life's Sunny Morn_, which wears, alas! too fast; _Pity_ it e'er should _hurt_, or should not _always last_! Has _Bankrupt Nature_ then no _more_ to give, Or by a _Trick_ persuades Mankind to _live_? 410 No--when with _Prudence_ join'd 'tis still the _same_ } Or _ripens_ into _Friendship's_ nobler _Name_, }