TO MR. JERVAS,

WITH

FRENOY's Art of PAINTING,

T

Tranflated by Mr. DRYDEN,

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His verfe be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse This, from no venal or ungrateful Muse. Whether thy hand frike out fome free defign, Where life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line; Or blend in beauteous tints the coulour'd mass, And from the canvas call the mimic face: Read thefe inftructive leaves, in which conspire Frefnoy's clofe art, and Dryden's native fire. And reading with, like theirs, our fate and fame, So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name; Like them to shine thro' long fucceeding age, So just thy skill, fo regular my rage.

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Smit with the love of Sifter-arts we came, And met congenial, mingling flame with flame; Like friendly colours found our arts unite, And each from each contract new strength and light How oft' in pleafing tasks we wear the day, While fummer funs roll unperceiv'd away? How oft' our flowly-growing works impart, While images reflect from art to art? How oft review; each finding like a friend Something to blame, and fomething to commend? What flatt'ring fcenes our wand'ring fancy wrought, Rome's pompous glories rifing to our thought!

I 3

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Το

Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly,
Fir'd with ideas of fair Italy.

With thee, on Raphael's Monument I mourn,
Or wait infpiring dreams at Maro's Urn:
With thee repofe, where Tully once was laid,
Or feck fome ruin's formidable shade;

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While fancy brings the vanifh'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome a new.

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Here thy well-tudy'd Marbles fix our eye;
A fading Frefco here demands a figh;
Each heav'nly piece unweary'd we compare,
Match Raphael's grace, with thy lov'd Guido's air,
Caracci's ftrength, Correggio's fofter line,
Panio's free ftroke, and Titian's warmth divine.'
How finish'd with illuftrious toil appears
This fmall, well-polish'd gem, the work of years!
Yet ftill how faint by precept is expreft
The living image in the Painter's breast?
Thence endlefs ftreams of fair ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence beauty, waking all her forms, fupplies 45
An Angel's fweetnefs, or Bridgwater's eyes.
Mufe! at that name thy facred forrows shed,
Thofe tears eternal, that embalm the dead:
Call round her tomb cach object of desire,
Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire ;
Bid her be all that chears or foftens life,
The tender fifter, daughter, friend and wife;
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore;
Then view this marble, and be vain no more!
Yet ftill her charms in breathing paint engage; 55
Her modeft cheek fhall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flow'r that ev'ry feason fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.

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Thus

* Frefnoy employ'd above twenty years in finishing this Poem.

Thus Churchill's race fhall others heart furprize,
And other Beauties envy Wortley's eyes,
Each pleafing Blount shall endless smiles bestow,
And foft Belinda's blufh for ever glow.

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Oh lafting as thofe colours may they shine, Free as thy itroke, yet faultlefs as thy line! New graces yearly, like thy works, difplay; 65 Soft without weakness, without glaring gay; Led by fome rule, that guides, but not constrains And finish'd more thro' happiness than pains! The kindred arts fhall in their praise conspire, One dip the pencil, and one ftring the lyre. Yet fhould the Graces all thy figures place, And breath an air divine on ev'ry face; Yet should the Mufes bid my numbers roll, Strong as their charms, and gentle as their foul; With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgwater vie, And these be fung till Granville's Myra die; Alas! how little from the grave we claim ! Thou but preferv'it a Form, and I a Name.

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TO A YOUNG LADY

WITH THE

WORKS of VOITURE.

N thefe gay thoughts the Loves and Graces fhine, And all the writer lives in ev'ry line;

IN

His eafy art may happy nature feem,
Trifles themselves are elegant in him.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,"
Who without flatt'ry pleas'd the fair, and great.
Still with esteem no lefs convers'd than read ;
With wit well-natur'd, and with books well-bred.
His heart, his mistress and his friend did fhare;
His time, the Muse, the witty, and the fair.
Thus wifely careless, innocently gay,
Chearful, he play'd the trifle life away,
Till death fcarce felt his gentle breath supprest,
As fmiling infants fport themfelves to reft.
Ev'n rival wits did Voiture's fate deplore,
And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before:
The trueft hearts for Voiture heav'd with fighs,
Voiture was wept by all the brightest eyes:
The Smiles and Loves had dy'd in Voiture's death,
But that for ever in his lines they breath.

Let the ftrict life of graver mortals be
A long, exact, and serious comedy,
In ev'ry scene some moral let it teach,
And, if it can, at once both please and preach:
Let mine, like Voiture's, a gay farce appear,
And more diverting ftill than regular,

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Haye humour, wit, a native ease and grace;
No matter for the rules of time and place.
Criticks in wit, or life, are hard to please,
Few write to thofe, and none can live to these. 30
Too much your Sex is by their forms confin'd,
Severe to all, but moft to womankind;
Custom, grown blind with age, must be your guide;
Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride;
By nature yielding, ftubborn but for fame;
Made flaves by honour, and made fools by fhame.
Marriage may all thofe petty tyrants chase,
But fets up one, a greater, in their place:
Well might you wish for change, by those accurft,
But the last tyrant ever proves the worst.
Still in constraint your fuff'ring fex remains,
Or bound in formal, or in real chains;
Whole years neglected for fome months ador'd,
The fawning fervant turns a haughty Lord;
Ah quit not the tree innocence of life,
For the dull glory of a virtuous wife!
Nor let falfe shows, or empty titles please;
Aim not at joy, but reft content with ease.

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The Gods, to curfe Pamela with her pray'rs Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares, 50 The fhining robes, rich jewels, beds of state, And, to compleat her blifs, a fool for mate. She glares in balls, front boxes, and the ring,' A vain, unquiet, glitt'ring, wretched thing! Pride,pomp, & ftate but reach her outward part, 55 She fighs, and is no Dutchefs at her heart.

But, Madam, if the Fates with rand, and you Are deftin'd Hymen's willing victim too, Truft not too much your now refiftlefs charms,, Thofe, age or fickness, foon or late, difarms; 60 Good humour only teaches charms to laft, Still makes new conquefts, and maintains the part: