meaner Croud, undignify'd for Verse On barren ground who drag th'unwilling Plough, And feel the Sweat of Brain as well as Brow. A Crew so vile, which, soon as read, displease, May Slumber in forgetfulness and ease, Till fresher Dulness wakes their sleeping Memories.

    Some stuff'd in Garrets dream for wicked Rhyme Where nothing but their Lodging is sublime. Observe their twenty faces, how they strain To void forth Nonsense from their costive Brain. Who (when they've murder'd so much costly time, Beat the vext Anvil with continual chime, And labour'd hard to hammer statutable Rhyme)   Create a BRITISH PRINCE; as hard a task, As would a Cowley or a Milton ask, To build a Poem of the vastest price, A DAVIDEIS, or LOST PARADISE. So tho' a Beauty of Imperial Mien May labour with a Heroe, or a Queen, The Dowdie's Offspring, of the freckled strain, Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain.

    Such to the Rabble may appear inspir'd, By Coxcombs envy'd, and by Fools admir'd. I pity Madmen who attempt to fly, And raise their Airy Babel to the Sky. Who, arm'd with Gabble, to create a Name, Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame, Not so the Seat of Phoebus role, which lay In Ruins buried, and a long Decay. To Britany the Temple was convey'd, By Natures utmost force, and more than Human Aid. Built from the Basis by a noble Few, The stately Fabrick in perfection view. While Nature gazes on the polish'd piece, The Work of many rowling Centuries.

  For Joyn'd with Art She labour'd long to raise An English Poet, meriting the Bays. How vain a Toil! Since Authors first were known For Greek and Latin Tongues, but scorn'd their Own.

  As Moors of old, near Guinea's precious Shore, For glittering Brass exchang'd their shining Oar. Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd, Nor could we view the Goddess thro' the Cloud.Chaucer

Chaucer

    Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay, Till Chaucer rose, and pointed out the Day. A joking Bard, whose antiquated Muse In mouldy words could Solid sense produce. Our English Ennius He, who claim'd his part In wealthy Nature, tho' unskil'd in Art. The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghil shines,Spencer And golden fragments glitter in his Lines. Which Spencer gather'd, for his Learning known, And by successful gleanings made his Own. So careful Bees, on a fair Summer's Day, Hum o'er the Flowers, and suck the sweets away. O had thy Poet, Britany, rely'd On 

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