All write at London; shall the rage abate Here, where it most should shine, the muses' seat? Where, mortal or immortal, as they please, The learn'd may choose eternity, or ease?...
My muse, proceed, and reach thy destin'd end; Though toils and danger the bold task attend. Heroes and gods make other poems fine; Plain satire calls for sense in every line:...
Round some fair tree th' ambitious woodbine grows, And breathes her sweets on the supporting boughs; So sweet the verse, th' ambitious verse, should be,...
Ipse pater, media nimborum in nocte, corusca Fulmina molitur dextra. Quo maxima motu Terra tremit: fug're fer'! et mortalia corda Per gentes humilis stravit pavor.
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