As when some skilful cook, to please each guest, Would in one mixture comprehend a feast, With due proportion and judicious care He fills his dish with different sorts of fare, Fishes and fowls deliciously unite, To feast at once the taste, the smell, and sight. So, Bernard, must a Miscellany be Compounded of all kinds of poetry; The Muses' olio, which all tastes may fit, And treat each reader with his darling wit. Wouldst thou for Miscellanies raise thy fame, And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name, Let all the Muses in the piece conspire; The lyric bard must strike the harmonious lyre; Heroic strains must here and there be found; And nervous sense be sung in lofty sound; Let elegy in moving numbers flow, And fill some pages with melodious woe; Let not your amorous songs too numerous prove, Nor glut thy reader with abundant love; Satire must interfere, whose pointed rage May lash the madness of a vicious age; Satire! the Muse that never fails to hit, For if there's scandal, to be sure there's wit. Tire not our patience with Pindaric lays, Those swell the piece, but very rarely please; Let short-breathed epigram its force confine, And strike at follies in a single line. Translations should throughout the work be sown, And Homer's godlike Muse be made our own; Horace in useful numbers should be sung, And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue. Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard disdain, And at her door in melting notes complain; His tender accents pitying virgins move, And charm the listening ear with tales of love Let every classic in the volume shine, And each contribute to thy great design; Through various subjects let the reader range, And raise his fancy with a grateful change. Variety's the source of joy below, From whence still fresh revolving pleasures flow. In books and love, the mind one end pursues, And only _change_ the expiring flame renews. Where Buckingham will condescend to give, That honoured piece to distant times must live; When noble Sheffield strikes the trembling strings, The little Loves rejoice, and clap their wings; Anacreon lives, they cry, the harmonious swain Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted strain, 'Tis he--our lost Anacreon lives again. But, when the illustrious poet soars above The sportive revels of the God of Love, Like Mars's Muse, he takes a loftier flight, And towers beyond the wondering Cupid's sight. If thou wouldst have thy volume stand the test, And of all others be reputed best, Let Congreve teach the listening groves to mourn, As when he wept o'er fair Pastora's urn. Let Prior's Muse with softening accents move, Soft as the strains of constant Emma's love: Or let his fancy choose some jovial theme, As when he told Hans Carvel's jealous dream;