To
Mr.
Winder
,
(
now
Fellow
)
of
Corpus-Christi
,
Oxford
;
in
Answer
to
a
Latin
Epistle
,
which
he
sent
me
.
I.
SOON
as
your
partial
Lays
I
saw
,
I
guess'd
your
crafty
Views
;
And
thought
you
writ
in
Verse
,
to
draw
A
Bill
upon
my
Muse
.
II
.
BUT
,
since
the
Treasure
you
convey
,
Comes
from
the
Roman
Mine
;
Forgive
me
,
if
I
can't
repay
The
Value
of
your
Coin
.
III
.
WHILE
on
thy
manly
Lines
I
dwell
,
Lines
,
that
might
POPE
employ
;
What
strange
Vicissitudes
I
feel
Of
Sorrow
,
Love
,
and
Joy
!
IV
.
NOW
Pleasure
charms
my
glowing
Soul
,
To
hear
thy
pompous
Song
In
soft
,
majestic
Numbers
roll
,
Like
FLACCUS
,
sweet
and
strong
.
V.
BUT
quickly
sympathizing
Pain
Succeeds
my
short
Delight
,
To
find
thy
moving
,
mournful
Strain
Describe
thy
Mr.
Winder
was
much
afflicted
with
sore
Eyes
,
when
he
sent
the
Epistle
.
Loss
of
Sight
.
VI
.
I
grieve
to
think
,
MACHAON's
Art
Can
give
thee
no
Relief
;
I
weep
,
and
wish
my
grateful
Heart
Could
cure
,
or
share
,
thy
Grief
.
VII
.
NO
more
to
me
Encomiums
send
,
In
such
a
learned
Strain
;
But
,
if
you'd
compliment
your
Friend
,
Present
him
half
your
Pain
.
VIII
.
TO
PHOEBUS
make
thy
Music
soar
,
To
Him
direct
thy
Lays
;
Invoke
his
Aid
,
and
healing
Pow'r
,
To
purge
the
visual
Rays
.
IX
.
FOR
,
if
your
Lyre
but
strike
his
Ear
,
(
The
Lyre
you
lately
strung
)
The
God
of
Verse
and
Light
must
hear
A
Suit
so
sweetly
sung
.