EPISTLES.
EPISTLE I.
TO MY HONOURED FRIEND SIR ROBERT HOWARD,[1] ON HIS EXCELLENT POEMS.
As there is music uninform'd by art In those wild notes, which, with a merry heart, The birds in unfrequented shades express, Who, better taught at home, yet please us less: So in your verse a native sweetness dwells, Which shames composure, and its art excels. Singing no more...
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