Such to the Rabble may appear inspir'd,
By Coxcombs envy'd, and by Fools admir'd.
I pity Madmen who attempt to fly,
And raise their Airy Babel to the Sky.
Who, arm'd with Gabble, to create a Name,
Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame,
Not so the Seat of Phoebus role, which lay
In Ruins buried, and a long Decay.
To Britany the Temple was convey'd,
By Natures utmost force, and more than Human Aid.
Built from the Basis by a noble Few,
The stately Fabrick in perfection view.
While Nature gazes on the polish'd piece,
The Work of many rowling Centuries.
For Joyn'd with Art She labour'd long to raise
An English Poet, meriting the Bays.
How vain a Toil! Since Authors first were known
For Greek and Latin Tongues, but scorn'd their Own.
As Moors of old, near Guinea's precious Shore,
For glittering Brass exchang'd their shining Oar.
Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd,
Nor could we view the Goddess thro' the Cloud.Chaucer
Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay,
Till Chaucer rose, and pointed out the Day.
A joking Bard, whose antiquated Muse
In mouldy words could Solid sense produce.
Our English Ennius He, who claim'd his part
In wealthy Nature, tho' unskil'd in Art.
The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghil shines,Spencer
And golden fragments glitter in his Lines.
Which Spencer gather'd, for his Learning known,
And by successful gleanings made his Own.
So careful Bees, on a fair Summer's Day,
Hum o'er the Flowers, and suck the sweets away.
O had thy Poet, Britany, rely'd
On native Strength, and Foreign Aid deny'd!
Had not wild Fairies blasted his Design,
Mæanides and Virgil had been Thine!
Their Finish'd Poems He exactly view'd,
But Chaucer's steps religiously pursu'd.
He cull'd, and pick'd, and thought it greater praise
T'adore his Master, than improve his Phrase;
'Twas counted Sin to deviate from his Page;
So secred was th' Authority of Age!
The Coyn must sure for currant Sterling pass,
Stamp'd with old Chaucer's Venerable Face.
But Johnson found it of a gross Alloy,
Melted it down, and slung the Dross away
He dug pure Silver from a Roman Mine,
And prest his Sacred Image on the Coyn.
We all rejoyc'd to see the pillag'd Oar,
Our Tongue inrich'd, which was so poor before.
Fear not, Learn'd Poet, our impartial blame,
Such Thefts as these add Lustre to thy Name.
Whether thy labour'd Comedies betray
The Sweat of Terence, in thy Glorious way,
Or Catliine plots better in thy Play.
Whether his Crimes more excellently shine,
Whether we hear the Consul's Voice Divine,
And doubt which merits most, Rome's Cicero, or Thine.
All yield, consenting to sustain the Yoke,
And learn the Language which the Victor spoke.
So Macedon's Imperial Hero threw
His wings abroad, and conquer'd as he flew.
Great Johnson'sBen. Johnson. Deeds stand Parallel with His,
Were Noble Thefts, Successful Pyracies.
Souls of a Heroe's, or a Poet's Frame
Are fill'd with larger particles of flame.
Scorning confinement, for more Land they groan,
And stretch beyond the Limits of their Own.
Fletcher and Beaument Fletcher, whose Wit, like some luxuriant Vine,
Profusely wanton'd in each golden Line.
Who, prodigal of Sense, by Beaumont's care,
Was prun'd so wisely, and became so fair.
Could from his copious Brain new Humours bring,
A bragging Bessus, or inconstant King.
Could Laughter thence, here melting pity raise
In his Amyntors, and Aspasia's.
But Rome and Athens must the Plots produce
With France, the Handmaid of the English Muse
Shakespear. Ev'n Shakespear sweated in his narrow Isle,
And Subject Italy obey'd his Stile.
Boccace and Cinthio must a tribute pay,
T'inrich his Scenes, and furnish out a Play.
Tho' Art ne're taught him how to write by Rules,
Or borrow Learning from Athenian Schools:
Yet He, with Plautus, could instruct and please,
* See Plutarch's Life of Theseus. And what requir'd long toil, perform with ease.
By inborn strength so Theseus bent the Pine,
Which cost the Robber many Years Design[*].
Tho' sometimes rude, unpolish'd and undrest
His Sentence flows, more careless than the rest.
Yet, when his Muse, complying with his will,
Deigns with informing heat his Breast to fill,
Then hear him thunder in the Pompous strain
Of Æschylus, or sooth in Ovid's vein.
I feel a Pity working in my Eyes,
When Desdemona by Othello dyes.
When I view Brutus in his Dress appear;
I know not how to call him too severe.
His rigid Vertue there attories for all,
And makes a Sacrifice of Cæsar's Fall.
Nature work'd Wonders then; when Shakespear dy'd
Cowley.* Ovid was born the same year in which Cicero dy'd.Her Cowley rose, drest in her gaudy Pride.
So from great Ruins a new Life she calls,
And Builds an Ovid[*] when a Tully Falls.