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Apollo's Edict.

Ierne's now our royal Care:
We lately fix'd our Vice--roy there.
How near was she to be undone,
Till pious Love inspir'd her Son!
What cannot our Vice--gerent do,
As Poet, and as Patriot too?
Let his Success our Subjects sway,
Our Inspirations to obey:
Let beaten Paths no more be trac'd;
But study to correct your Taste.

No Simile shall be begun
With rising, or with setting Sun;
And let the secret Head of Nile
Be ever banish'd from your Isle.

When wretched Lovers live on Air,
In Pity the Chameleon spare!
And when you'd make a Hero grander,
Forget he's like a Salamander.

No Son of mine shall dare to say,
Aurora usher'd in the Day.

You all agree, I make no Doubt,
The Prophet's Mantle's quite worn out.

The Bird of Fove shall toil no more,
To teach the humble Wren to soar.

Your tragic Heroes shall not rant,
Nor Shepherds use poetic Cant.
Simplicity alone can grace
The Manners of the rural Race.

When Damon's Soul shall take its Flight,
(Tho' Poets have the second Sight)
No Trail of Light shall upwards rise,
Nor a new Star adorn the Skies:
For who can hope to place one there,
So glorious as Belinda's Hair?
Yet, if his Name you eternize,
And must exalt him to the Skies;
Without a Star it may be done--
So Tickell mourn'd his Addison.

If Anna's happy Reign you praise,
Say not a Word of Halcyon--Days:
Nor let my Vot'ries shew their Skill,
In apeing Lines from Cooper's--Hill;

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