There is a sheepfold he rais'd which my memory loves to revisit,
Sheepfold whose wall shall endure when there is not a stone of the palace.
Still there are walking on earth many poets whom ages hereafter
Will be more willing to praise than they are to praise one another:
Some do I know, but I fear, as is meet, to recount or report them,
For, be whatever the name that is foremost, the next will run over,
Trampling and rolling in dust his excellent friend the precursor.
Peace be with all! but afar be ambition to follow the Roman,
Led by the German, uncomb'd, and jigging in dactyl and spondee,
Lumbering shapeless jackboots which nothing can polish or supple.