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A Second EPISTLE.
To my Honoured Friend Mr. E. S.
I.
Oft has my Muse and I fall'n out,And I as oft have banish'd her my Breast;
But such, alas, still was her interest,
And still to bring her purposes about:
So great her cunning in insinuation,
That she soon gain'd her wish'd-for restoration:
But when I found this wou'd not do,
A Violent Death I put her to.
But see, my Friend, how your All-pow'rfull Pen
(O Miracle!) has rais'd her from the Dead again.
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II.
And now, alas, what can she doe,Or speak or shew,
How very much she is oblig'd to you?
For where the Boon's so great, it were a rude
Presumption to pretend to Gratitude;
And a mad project to contrive to give
To you, from whom she do's her All receive:
Yet if she Traffick on your Stock, and thrive,
'Tis sit, how e'er the Principal be spent,
To pay the Int'rest of Acknowledgment.
III.
And with her I must acknowledge too,The honour which you did on me bestow,
Though I unworthy were of it:
Not but your Judgment knew well how to chuse
A worthier Subject than my Muse,
To exercise th' Exu'brance of your Wit;
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And nobly in Triumph rides;
Whilst other Vertues march in Troops behind,
Friendship do's the Chariot guide,
Which may perhaps run too much of one side:
Friendship, as well as Love, sometimes is blind;
And that she may be always so,
My Prayers shall ever tend,
'Cause I no other Title have to show,
Or tenure to the love of any Friend.
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