Is this my guide, philosopher, and friend?
This he, who loves me, and who ought to mend?
Who ought to make me (what he can, or none)
That man divine whom wisdom calls her own; 180
Great without title, without fortune bless'd;

Rich 'even when plunder'd, "honour'd while op

a

press'd;

Loved without youth, and follow'd without power; At home, though exiled; free, though in the Tower; In short, that reasoning, high, immortal thing, 185 Just less than Jove, and much above a king; Nay, half in heaven-except (what's mighty odd) A fit of vapours clouds this demi-god.

THE SIXTH EPISTLE

OF THE

FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

1

THIS piece is the most finished of all his Imitations, and executed in the high manner the Italian painters call con amore. By which they mean, the exertion of that principle, which puts the faculties on the stretch, and produces the supreme degree of excellence. For the Poet had all the warmth of affection for the great Lawyer to whom it is addressed: and, indeed, no man ever more deserved to have a Poet for his friend. In the obtaining of which, as neither vanity, party, nor fear had any share, (which gave birth to the attachments of many of his noble acquaintance,) so he supported his title to it by all the good offices of a generous and true friendship. Warburton.