That Rome might envy his Satyrick Quill;
And crabbed Persins his hard lines give ore,
And in disdain beat his brown Desk no more.
How I admire the Cleaveland! when I weigh
Thy close-wrought Sense, and every line survey!
They are not like those things which some compose,
Who in a maze of Words the Sense do lose.
Who spin one thought into so long a thread,
And beat their Wit we thin to make it spread;
Till 'tis too fine for our weak eyes to find,