CLAREMONT.

ADDRESSED TO THE

RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF CLARE,

AFTERWARDS DUKE OF NEWCASTLE.

-Dryadum silvas, saltusque sequamur
Intactos, tua, Mæcenas, haud mollia jussa.

VIRG.

PREFACE.

THEY that have seen those two excellent Poems of Cooper's Hill and Windsor Forest; the one by Sir John Denham, the other by Mr. Pope; will show a great deal of candour if they approve of this. It was writ, upon giving the name of Claremont to a villa, now belonging to the Earl of Clare. The situation is so agreeable and surprising, that it inclines one to think, some place of this nature put Ovid at first upon the story of Narcissus and Echo. 'Tis probable he had observed some spring arising amongst woods and rocks, where echoes were heard; and some flower bending over the stream, and by consequence reflected from it. After reading the story in the third book of the Metamorphoses, 'tis obvious to object (as an ingenious friend has already done) that the renewing the charms of a nymph, of which Ovid had dispossessed her,

vox tantùm atque ossa supersunt,

is too great a violation of poetical authority. I dare say the gentleman who is meant, would have

been well pleased to have found no faults. There are not many authors one can say the same of. Experience shows us every day that there are writers who cannot bear a brother should succeed, and the only refuge from their indignation is by being inconsiderable: upon which reflection, this thing ought to have a pretence to their favour.

They who would be more informed of what relates to the ancient Britons, and the Druids their priests, may be directed by the quotations to the authors that have mentioned them.

CLAREMONT.

WHAT frenzy has of late possess'd the brain?
Though few can write, yet fewer can refrain.
So rank our soil, our bards rise in such store,
Their rich retaining patrons scarce are more :
The last indulge the fault the first commit;
And take off still the offal of their wit.
So shameless, so abandon'd are their ways,
They poach Parnassus, and lay snares for praise.
None ever can without admirers live,
Who have a pension or a place to give.
Great ministers ne'er fail of great deserts;

The herald gives them blood; the poet, parts.
Sense is of course annex'd to wealth and pow'r;
No Muse is proof against a golden show'r.
Let but his lordship write some poor lampoon,
He's Horac'd up in doggrel like his own.
Or, if to rant in tragic rage he yields,

False fame cries- Athens !' honest truth- Moor

fields!'

Thus fool'd, he flounces on through floods of ink; Flags with full sail; and rises but to sink.

Some venal pens so prostitute the bays, Their panegyrics lash; their satires praise. So nauseously, and so unlike they paint, N's an Adonis; M

-r a saint.