Complain not Sol, of fruitless ages past,
Think your self blest in such a Son at last!
Thrice happy Poets, if you knew your state;
Britain alone can boast a Laureat.
For if, like him, to Grandeur you aspire,
By his Example reach your own desire.
Let criticks then their self born views lay down;
And Bards in chorus thus sing round the town.
Air.
Hail! Matchless Colley, hail!