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The Works of Horace In English Verse

By several hands. Collected and Published By Mr. Duncombe. With Notes Historical and Critical
  

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The Same EPISTLE Imitated.
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420

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Boy, haste away with careful Pace]

By Edward Greene Burnaby, Esq;
Boy, haste away with careful Pace,
And take these Poems to his Grace;
On every Corner closely seal'd,
Be they to none but him reveal'd;
Say, for the public Eye design'd,
They only wait to know his Mind.
If no rude Gout's intruding Smart
Disturbs his usual Mirth of Heart,
Or if successful in Resort
Kind Fortune crowns his Vows at Court,
If thus in Health and Spirits gay,
He may demand th'unproffer'd Lay;
Yet, stay awhile; contented rest
To view the Temper of his Breast;
Zeal too-officious may offend,
And say what Bard would lose a Friend?
Submissive steal out every Word
With, ‘May it please my noblest Lord!’

421

If you intrude, he'll sure despise,
And spurn my Offspring from his Eyes:
Besides, from his exalted Station
Some Gold awaits a Dedication.
If by his wayward Mood to-day
You think he'll frown upon the Lay,
Then back your sudden Steps pursue;
Perhaps another Day will do.
Better precarious Hopes resign,
Than lose my Labour, and my Coin.
Boy, hence with rapid Course proceed,
Nor Floods, nor Dykes, nor Mountains heed;
Fly on, till Victor at the Gate
You're summon'd to the Room of State.
There, when with cringing Smile you've bow'd,
Steal from your Arm the letter'd Load;
But not with such a clownish Air
As Lawyers oft their Parchments bear;
Nor use a self-destructive Art,
Like F---rn---r, whose perfidious Heart
Form'd, under Friendship's Veil, the Plan
Of Forgery 'gainst the good old Man:

422

Nor awkward, as the rural Maid,
Who, by a wanton Joy betray'd,
Bears, at Diversion's sprightly Call,
Her Cloak and Pattens to a Ball.
Then thus, ‘My Lord, with toiling Care
‘These Papers diffident I bear;
‘Scarce would the noblest Volumes rise
‘Worthy so great a Critic's Eyes;
‘The Author droops with Doubts o'erspread;
‘And just the Reason of his Dread.’
Yet, Boy, with Care proceed; a Fall
Would spoil my Book, my Hopes, my All.
Good Heaven, a Poet's Wishes bless,
And crown my Labours with Success;
Nor let my Patron's Hand refuse
Provision to a starving Muse!