The Mantuan Swan keeps a soft gentle Flight, Is always Tow'ring, but still Plays in Sight. Calm and Serene his Verse; his active Song Runs smooth as Thames's River, and as strong. Like his own Neptune he the Waves confines, While Bl—— re rumbles, like the King of Winds. His flat Descriptions, void of Manly Strength, Jade out our Patience with excessive length. While Readers, Yawning o'er his Arthurs see Whole Pages spun on one poor Simile. We grant he labours with no want of Brains, Or Fire, or Spirit; but He spares the Pains, One happy Thought, or two, may at a Heat Be struck, but Time and Study must compleat A Verse, sublimely Good, and justly Great. It call'd for an Omnipotence to raise The World's Imperial Poem in Six Days. But Man, that offspring of corrupting Clay, Subject to Err, and Subject to Decay:   In Hopes, Desires, Will, Power, a numerous Train, Uncertain, Fickle, Impotent and Vain:   Must tire the Heav'nly Muse with endless Prayer, And call the smiling Angels to his care. Must sleep less Nights, Vulcanian Labours prove, Like Cyclops, forging Thunder for a Jove. With Flame begin thy Glorious Thoughts and Style, Then Cool, and bring them to the smoothing File. If You design to make Your Prince appear As perfect as Humanity can bear. Whom Vertues at th' expence of Danger please, Deaf to the Syrens of alluring ease. No Terrours Thee, Achilles, could invade, Nor Thee, Ulysses, any Charms persuade. This must be done, if Poets would be Read, Who seek to emulate the Sacred Dead.

    Thus in bright Numbers and well polish'd Strains Virgilian Addison describes Campaigns. Whose Verse, like a proportion'd Man, we find, Not of the Gyant, nor the Pygmy kind. Such Symmetry appears o'er all the Song, Lofty with justness, and with Caution strong.

    This Congreve follows in his Deathless Line, And the Tenth Hand is put to the Design. The Happy boldness of his Finish'd Toil Claims more than Shakespear's Wit, or Johnson's Oil. Sing on, Harmonious Swan, in weeping strains, And tell Pastora's Death to mournful Swains. Or with more pleasing Charms, with softer Airs Sweeten our Passions, and delude our Cares. Or let thy Satyr grin with half a Smile, And jeer in Easy Etherege's Style. Let Manly Wycherly chalk out the Way, And Art direct, where Nature goes astray.   'Tis not for Thee to Write of Conqu'ring Kings, The Noise of Arms will break thy Am'rous Strings.

    The Teian Muse invites Thee from above To lay Thy Trumpet down, and sing of Love. Let MONTAGUE describe Boyn's swelling Flood And purple Streams 

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