O that your brows my laurel had sustain'd! Well had I been deposed, if you had reign'd: The father had descended for the son; For only you are lineal to the throne. Thus, when the state one Edward did depose, A greater Edward in his room arose: But now, not I, but poetry is cursed; For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first. But let them not mistake my patron's part, Nor call his charity their own desert. 50 Yet this I prophesy: Thou shalt be seen (Though with some short parenthesis between) High on the throne of wit, and, seated there, Not mine, that's little, but thy laurel wear. Thy first attempt an early promise made; That early promise this has more than paid. So bold, yet so judiciously you dare, That your least praise is to be regular. Time, place, and action, may with pains be wrought; But genius must be born, and never can be taught, 60 This is your portion; this your native store; Heaven, that but once was prodigal before, To Shakspeare gave as much; she could not give him more. Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need; For 'tis impossible you should proceed. Already I am worn with cares and age, And just abandoning the ungrateful stage: Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense, I live a rent-charge on his providence: But you, whom every muse and grace adorn, 70 Whom I foresee to better fortune born, Be kind to my remains; and O defend, Against your judgment, your departed friend! Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue, But shade those laurels which descend to you: And take for tribute what these lines express: You merit more; nor could my love do less. * * * * * EPISTLE XI. TO MR GRANVILLE,[20] ON HIS EXCELLENT TRAGEDY CALLED "HEROIC LOVE."