TO THE DUCHESS, WHEN HE PRESENTED THIS BOOK TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS. Madam! I here present you with the rage, And with the beauties of a former age; Wishing you may with as great pleasure view This, as we take in gazing upon you. Thus we writ then: your brighter eyes inspire A nobler flame, and raise our genius higher. While we your wit and early knowledge fear, To our productions we become severe; Your matchless beauty gives our fancy wing, Your judgment makes us careful how we sing. 10 Lines not composed, as heretofore, in haste, Polish'd like marble, shall like marble last, And make you through as many ages shine, As Tasso has the heroes of your line. Though other names our wary writers use, You are the subject of the British Muse; Dilating mischief to yourself unknown, Men write, and die of wounds they dare not own. So the bright sun burns all our grass away, While it means nothing but to give us day. 20 TO MR CREECH, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF 'LUCRETIUS.'[1] What all men wish'd, though few could hope to see, We are now bless'd with, and obliged by thee. Thou, from the ancient, learned Latin store, Giv'st us one author, and we hope for more. May they enjoy thy thoughts!--Let not the stage The idlest moment of thy hours engage; Each year that place some wondrous monster breeds, And the wits' garden is o'errun with weeds. There, Farce is Comedy; bombast called strong; Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song. 10 'Tis hard to say they steal them now-a-days; For sure the ancients never wrote such plays. These scribbling insects have what they deserve, Not plenty, nor the glory for to starve. That Spenser knew, that Tasso felt before; And death found surly Ben exceeding poor. Heaven turn the omen from their image here! May he with joy the well-placed laurel wear! Great Virgil's happier fortune may he find, And be our Cæsar, like Augustus, kind! 20 But let not this disturb thy tuneful head; Thou writ'st for thy delight, and not for bread; Thou art not cursed to write thy verse with care; But art above what other poets fear. What may we not expect from such a hand, That has, with books, himself at free command? Thou know'st in youth, what age has sought in vain; And bring'st forth sons without a mother's pain. So easy is thy sense, thy verse so sweet, Thy words so proper, and thy phrase so fit, 30 We read, and read again; and still admire Whence came this youth, and whence this wondrous fire!