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To his Friend the Author of JUVENALIS REDIVIVUS.
BLest Poet! Thou alone writst unconfin'd,
And in a Stile as free as is thy Mind.
Thy even Satyr no wrong Byas knows,
But equally on all its rage bestows.
Though (thou my Friend) hast been provok'd to write,
There's not oneline that savours ought of spight.
But with impartial Pen Vice is drawn here,
And does in all its nakedness appear:
Where most men may perhaps with wondring look
See themselves ugly, and condemn thy Book;
Like some brown Dame, who, when she views her face,
Is angry at the sight, and breaks the Glass.
But still go on (brave Friend) and make us know,
What Rome to Juvenal, That to Thee we owe.
For in the Latin thou'st but chang'd each name,
The Matter, Manners, Men were all the same.
Nor doest in this the Age alone refine,
But Juvenal himself in every line.
This gentle Satyr, if well understood,
May kindly awe, and force us unto good.
Yet I fear too, ill in th' effect twill be,
All will turn wicked to be scourg'd by Thee.
June 23. 1683.