Th’ immortal Dryden, and the sacred band
Of those bright authors, whom we cannot find,
Whose names, (so does oblivion’s power command,)
Alas! we no where know,
Supp’d largely to inebriate their mind.
Here a good versifier, fond of rhime,
Should swill, to make his jingling couplets chime.
From hence, good natur’d B——d, arose your flame,
Hence your inimitable numbers came,
When you so prais’d his house and Buckingham.