says, in speaking of

    Monimia

   :

    You took her up a little tender Flower,

    Just sprouted on a Bank, which the next Frost

    Had nipt; and, with a careful loving Hand,

    Transplanted her into your own fair Garden,

    Where the Sun always shines: There long she flourish'd,

    Grew sweet to Sense, and lovely to the Eye;

    Till at the last, a cruel Spoiler came,

    Cropt this fair Rose, and rifled all its Sweetness,

    Then cast it, like a loathsome Weed, away.

   This Thought has a prodigious Eclat: There's a great deal of Wit in it, and even an Air of Simplicity that imposes upon one. We all see, that these Verses, pronounced with the Art and Enthusiasm of a good Actor never fail of Applause; but I think we may also see, that the Tragedy of the

    Orphan

   wrote entirely in this Taste would never have lived long.

   In effect, why should

    Chamont

   make such a long-winded Simile almost in the Height of Rage for the Ruin of his Sister? Is that natural? Does not the Poet here quite hide his Hero to shew himself?

   This brings into my Mind the absurd Custom of finishing the Acts of almost all our modern Tragedies with a Simile; surely in a great Crisis of Affairs, in a Council, in a violent Passion of Love or Wrath, in a pressing Danger, Princes, Ministers, Heroes or Lovers, should not make Poetical Comparisons.—Even

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