Thy spotless Thoughts unshock’d the Priest may hear,
    And the pure Vestal in her Bosom wear. 
    To conscious Blushes and diminish’d Pride,
    Thy Glass betrays what treach’rous Love would hide;
    Nor harsh thy Precepts, but infused by stealth,
    Please while they cure, and cheat us into Health.

    Thy Works in_ Chloe’s Toilet gain a part,
    And with his Tailor share the the Fopling’s Heart: 
    Lash’d in thy Satire, the penurious Cit
    Laughs at himself, and finds no harm in Wit: 
    From Felon Gamesters the raw Squire is free,
    And Britain_ owes her rescu’d Oaks to thee.

    His Miss the frolick Viscount dreads to toast,
    Or his third Cure the shallow Templar boast;
    And the rash Fool who scorn’d the beaten Road,
    Dares quake at Thunder, and confess his God.

    The brainless Stripling,—­who, expell’d to Town,
    Damn’d the stiff College and pedantick Gown,
    Aw’d by thy Name, is dumb, and thrice a Week
    Spells uncouth Latin, and pretends to Greek.

    A sauntring Tribe! such born to wide Estates,
    With Yea and No in Senates hold Debates: 
    At length despis’d, each to his Fields retires,
    First with the Dogs, and King amidst the Squires;
    From Pert to Stupid sinks supinely down,
    In Youth a Coxcomb, and in Age a Clown.

    Such Readers scorned, thou wings’t thy daring Flight
    Above the Stars, and tread’st the Fields of Light;
    Fame, Heav’n and Hell, are thy exalted Theme,
    And Visions such as Jove himself might dream;
    Man sunk to Slav’ry, tho’ to Glory born,
    Heaven’s Pride when upright, and depraved his Scorn.

    Such Hints alone could British Virgil lend,
    And thou alone deserve from such a Friend: 
    A Debt so borrow’d, is illustrious Shame,
    And Fame when shar’d with him is double Fame. 
    So flush’d with Sweets, by Beauty’s Queen bestow’d,
    With more than mortal Charms. AEneas glow’d. 
    Such genrous Strifes Eugene and Marlbro’ try,
    And as in Glory, so in Friendship vie.

    Permit these Lines by Thee to live—­nor blame
    A Muse that pants and languishes for Fame;
    That fears to sink when humbler Themes she sings,
    Lost in the Mass of mean forgotten things. 
    Receiv’d by Thee, I prophesy my Rhymes
    The Praise of Virgins in succeeding Times: 
    Mix’d with thy Works, their Life no Bounds shall see,
    But stand protected, as inspir’d by thee.

So some weak Shoot, which else would poorly rise, Jove’s Tree adopts, and lifts him to the Skies; Through the new Pupil fost’ring Juices flow, Thrust forth the Gems, and give the Flow’rs to blow Aloft; immortal reigns the Plant unknown, With borrow’d Life, and Vigour not his own.’ [4]

  To the SPECTATOR-GENERAL.