Then with a groan-support me, O! beware
Of holding worth, however great, too dear! *
Pardon, my lord, the privilege of grief,
That in untimely freedom feeks relief;
To better fate your love I recommend,
O! may you never lofe fo dear a friend!
May nothing interrupt your happy hours;
Enjoy the blefings peace on Europe showers :
Nor yet difdain those blessings to adorn ;
To make the Mufe immortal, you was born.
Sing; and in latest time, when story 's dark,
This period your furviving fame shall mark ;
Save from the gulph of years this glorious age,
And thus illuftrate their hiftorian's

page.
The crown of Spain in doubtful balance hung,
And Anna Britain sway'd, when Granville fung:
That noted year Europa fheath'd her fword,
When this great man was first faluted lord.

* The Author here bewails that most ingenious gentleman, Mr. William Harrifon, Fellow of NewCollege, Oxon. YOUNG.-[See a more particular account of him in the "Supplement to Swift."]

TWO

TWO

EPISTLES

то

MR. PO PE,

CONCERNING

THE AUTHORS OF THE AGE.

M DCC XXX.

EPIST LE I.

WHILS

HILST you at Twickenham plan the future
wood,

Or turn the volumes of the wife and good,
Our fenate meets; at parties, parties bawl,
And pamphlets ftun the streets, and load the stall;
So rufhing tides bring things obfcene to light,
Foul wrecks emerge, and dead dogs fwim in fight;
The civil torrent foams, the tumult reigns,
And Codrus' profe works up, and Lico's strains.
Lo! what from cellars rife, what rush from high,
Where fpeculation roofted near the sky;
Letters, Effays, Sock, Bufkin, Satire, Song,
And all the Garret thunders on the throng!

Q Pope! I burft; nor can, nor will, refrain;
I'll write; let others, in their turn, complain:
Truce, truce, ye Vandals! my tormented ear
Lefs dreads a pillory than a pamphleteer;
I've heard myself to death; and, plagu'd each hour,
Shan't I return the vengeance in my power?
For who can write the true abfurd like me?-
Thy pardon, Codrus! who, I mean, but thee?
Pope! if like mine, or Codrus', were thy ftyle,
The blood of vipers had not ftain'd thy file;
Merit lefs folid, lefs defpite had bred;
They had not bit, and then they had not bled.
Fame is a public mistress, none enjoys,
But, more or less, his rival's peace deftroys;

With