dwell, like Bees on Flowry Dew, And Waller's praise Eternally pursue, Could I, like Him, in Harmony excel, So sweetly strike the Lute, and Sing so Well.

    But now the forward Muse converts her Eye To see where Denham, and Roscommon fly, Cautiously daring, and correctly High. Both chief in Honour, and in Learning's Grace, Of Ancient Spirit, and of Ancient Race. Who, when withdrawn from Business, and Affairs, Their Minds unloaded of tormenting Cares, With soothing Verse deceiv'd the sliding Time, And, unrewarded, Sung in Noble Rhyme. Not like those Venal Bards, who Write for Pence, Above the Vulgar were their Names and Sense, The Critick judges what the Muse indites, And Rules for Dryden, like a Dryden, Writes.* Epictetus.   'Tis true their Lamps were of the smallest Size, But like the Stoicks[*], of prodigious Price. Roscommon's Rules shall o'er our Isle be Read, Nor Dye, till Poetry itself be Dead. Fam'd Cooper's Hill shall, like Parnassus, stand, And Denham reign, the Phæbus of the Land.Oldham.

* Epictetus.

Oldham.

    Among these sacred and immortal Names, A Youth glares out, and his just Honour claims; See circling Flames, in stead of Laurel, play Around his Head, and Sun the brighten'd Way. But misty Clouds of unexpected Night, Cast their black Mantle o'er th' immoderate Light. Here, pious Muse, lament a While; 'tis just We pay some Tribute to his sacred Dust. O'er his fresh Marble strow the fading Rose And Lilly, for his Youth resembled those. The brooding Sun took care to dress him Gay, In all the Trappings of the flowry May. He set him out unsufferably bright, And sow'd in every part his beamy Light. Th' unfinish'd Poet budded forth too soon, For what the Morning warm'd; was scorch'd at Noon.

    His careless Lines plain Nature's Rules obey, Like Satyrs Rough, but not Deform'd as they. His Sense undrest, like Adam, free from Blame, Without his Cloathing, and without his Shame, True Wit requires no Ornaments of skill, A Beauty naked, is a Beauty still.

    Warm'd with just Rage he lash'd the Romish Crimes, In rugged Satyr and ill-sounding Rhymes. All Italy felt his imbitter'd Tongue, And trembled less when sharp Lucilius Stung. Here let us pass in Silence, nor accuse Th' extravagance of his Unhallow'd Muse. In Jordan's stream she wash'd the tainted Sore, And rose more Beauteous than She was before.

    Then Fancy curb'd 

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