Betrays no lofty Genius, nor a Style. That Heav'nly Heat refuses to be seen In a Town-Character and Comick Mien.

* See Preface to Aurengzebe.

    If we would do him right, we must produce The Sophoclean Buskin; when his Muse With her loud Accents fills the list'ning Ear, And Peals applauding shake the Theater.

    They fondly seek, Great Name, to blast thy Praise, Who think that Foreign Thanks produc'd thy Bays. Is he oblig'd to France, who draws from thence By English Energy, their Captive Sense? Tho' Edward and fam'd Henry Warr'd in vain, Subduing what they could not long retain:   Yet now beyond our Arms the Muse prevails, And Poets Conquer where the Hero fails.

  This does superiour excellence betray; O could I Write in thy Immortal Way! If Art be Nature's Scholar, and can make Such vast improvements, Nature must forsake Her Ancient Style; and in some grand Design She must her Own Originals decline, And for the Noblest Copies follow Thine. Pardon this just transition to thy Praise, Which Young Thalia sung in Rural Lays.

    As Sleep to weary Drovers on the Plain As a sweet River to a thirsty Swain,   Such Tityrus's charming Number show, Please like the River, like the River flow. When his first Years in mighty Order ran, And cradled Infancy bespoke the Man, Around his Lips the Waxen Artists hung, And drop'd ambrosial Dew upon his Tongue. Then from his Mouth harmonious Numbers broke, More sweet than Honey from a hollow Oke. Pleasant as streams which from a Mountain Glide, Yet lofty as the Top from whence they slide.

    Long He possest th' Hereditary Plains, Admir'd by all the Herdsmen and the Swains. Till he resign'd his Flock, opprest with cares, Weaken'd by num'rous Woes, and grey with Years. Yet still, like Ætna's Mount, he kept his Fire, And look'd like beauteous Roses on a Brier. He smil'd, like Phoebus in a Stormy Morn, And sung, like Philomel against a Thorn.

    Here Syren of sweet Poesy, receive That little praise my unknown Muse can give. Thou shalt immortal be, no Censure fear Tho' angry B—— more in Heroicks jeer.

    A Bard, who seems to challenge Virgil's Flame, And would be next in Majesty and Name. With lofty Maro he at first may please; The Righteous Briton rises by degrees. But once on Wing, thro' secret Paths he rows, And leaves his Guide, or follows him too close, 

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