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 Your hands have won --- but shun the fault of such, Who with fond rashness trust themselves too much. For some, we know, who by their pride betray'd, With vain contempt reject a foreign aid; Who scorn those great examples to obey, Nor follow where the antients point the way. While from the theft their cautious hands refrain, Vain are their fears; their superstition vain. Nor Phœbus' smiles th' unhappy poet crown; The fate of all his works prevents his own. Himself his mould'ring monument survives, And sees his labours perish while he lives: His fame is more contracted than his span, And the frail Author dies before the Man. How would he wish the labour to forbear, And follow other arts with more successful care?


 * a fair allusion cleanly wrought;

When the same words express a different thought; And such a theft true criticks dare not blame, Which late posterity shall crown with fame. Void