Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line,
A noble error, and but seldom made,
When Poets are by too much force betray'd.
Thy generous Fruits, though gather'd e're their Prime,
Still shew'd a quickness; and maturing time;
But Mellows what we write to the dull sweets of Rhime.
Once more, hail and farwel, farwel thou young,
But all too short Marcellus of our Tongue;
Thy brows with Ivy, and with Lawrels bound;
But flat and gloomy Night encompass thee around.