III.
It long has been this sacred author's fate,
To lie at every dull translator's will:
Long, long his Muse has groaned beneath the weight
Of mangling Ogleby's presumptuous quill.
IV.
Dryden, at last, in his defence arose:
The father now is righted by the son;
And, while his Muse endeavours to disclose
That poet's beauties, she declares her own.
V.
In your smooth pompous numbers drest, each line,
Each thought, betrays such a majestic touch,
He could not, had he finished his design,
Have wished it better, or have done so much.
VI.
You, like his hero, though yourself were free,
And disentangled from the war of wit—
You, who secure might others' danger see,
And safe from all malicious censure sit—
VII.