among our great English poets, Ned Softly has got all the bad ones without book; which he repeats upon occasion, to show his reading, and garnish his conversation. Ned is indeed a true English reader, incapable of relishing the great and masterly strokes of this art; but wonderfully pleased with the little gothic ornaments of epigrammatical conceits, turns, points, and quibbles; which are so frequent in the most admired of our English poets, and practised by those who want genius and strength to represent, after the manner of the antients, simplicity in its natural beauty and perfection.

Finding myself unavoidably engaged in such a conversation, I was resolved to turn my pain into a pleasure, and to divert myself as well as I could with so very odd a fellow. You must understand, says Ned, that the sonnet I am going to read to you was written upon a lady who showed me some verses of her own making, and is, perhaps, the best poet of our age. But you shall hear it. Upon which he began to read as follows:

To Mira, on her incomparable Poems.

I.

When dress'd in laurel wreaths you shine,

And tune your soft melodious notes,

You seem a sister of the Nine,

Or Phoebus' self in petticoats.

II.

I fancy, when your song you sing,

(Your song you sing with so much art,) Your pen was pluck'd from Cupid's wing; For, ah! it wounds me like his dart.

Why, says I, this is a little nosegay of conceits, a very lump of salt: every verse hath something in it that piques; and then the dart in the last line is certainly as pretty a sting in the tail of an epigram, for so I think you critics call it, as ever entered into the thought of a poet. Dear Mr. Bickerstaff, says he, shaking me by the hand, every body knows you to be a judge of these things; and to tell you truly, I read over Roscommon's translation of Horace's Art of Poetry three several times, before I sat down to write the sonnet which I have shown you. But you shall hear it again, and pray observe every line of it; for not one of them shall pass without your approbation.

When dress'd in laurel wreaths you shine,

That is, says he, when you have your garland on; when you are writing verses. To which I replied, I know your meaning: a metaphor? The same, said he, and went on→→→

And tune your soft melodious notes,

Pray observe the gliding of that verse; there is scarce a consonant in it: I took care to make it run upon liquids. Give me your opinion of it. Truly, said I, I think it as good as the former. I am very glad to hear you say so, says he; but mind the next.

You seem a sister of the Nine,

That is, says he, you seem a sister of the Muses; for, if you look into antient authors, you will find it was their opinion, that there were nine of them. I remember it very well, said I: but pray proceed,

Or Phoebus' self in petticoats.

Phœbus,

Phoebus, says he, was the god of poetry. These little instances, Mr, Bickerstaff, show a gentleman's reading. Then to take off from the air of learning, which Phoebus and the Muses have given to this first stanza, you may observe, how it falls all of a sudden into the familiar; in petticoats!'

Or Phoebus' self in petticoats.

Let us now, says I, enter upon the second stanza; I find the first line is still a continuation of the metaphor.

I fancy, when your song you sing,

It is very right, says he; but pray observe the turn of words in those two lines. I was a whole hour in adjusting of them, and have still a doubt upon me, whether in the second line it should be Your song you sing;' or, "You sing your song?'.You shall hear them both:

I fancy, when your song you sing,
(Your song you sing with so much art)

Or,

I fancy, when your song you sing,

(You sing your song with so much art)

Truly, faid I, the turn is so natural either way, that you have made me almost giddy with it. Dear sir, said he, grasping me by the hand, you have a great deal of patience; but pray, what do you think of the

next verse?

Your pen was pluck'd from Cupid's wing;

Think! says I; I think you have made Cupid look

Why, says I, this is a little nosegay of conceits, a very lump of salt: every verse hath something in it that piques; and then the dart in the last line is certainly as pretty a sting in the tail of an epigram, for so I think you critics call it, as ever entered into the thought of a poet. Dear Mr. Bickerstaff, says he, sheking me by the hand, every body knows you to be a judge of these things; and to tell you truly, I read over Roscommon's translation of Horace's Art of Poetry three several times, before I sat down to write the sonnet which I have shown you. But you shall hear it again, and pray observe every line of it; for not one of them shall pass without your approbation.

When dress'd in laurel wreaths you shine,

That is, says he, when you have your garland on; when you are writing verses. To which I replied, I know your meaning: a metaphor? The same, said he, and went on-→→

And tune your soft melodious notes,

Pray observe the gliding of that verse; there is scarce a consonant in it: I took care to make it run upon liquids. Give me your opinion of it. Truly, said I, I think it as good as the former. I am very glad to hear you say so, says he; but mind the next.

You seem a sister of the Nine,

That is, says he, you seem a sister of the Muses; for, if you look into antient authors, you will find it was their opinion, that there were nine of them. I remember it very well, said I: but pray proceed.

Or Phoebus' self in petticoats.

Phoebus,

Phoebus, says he, was the god of poetry. These little instances, Mr, Bickerstaff, show a gentleman's reading. Then to take off from the air of learning, which Phoebus and the Muses have given to this first stanza, you may observe, how it falls all of a sudden into the familiar; in petticoats!'

Or Phœbus' self in petticoats.

Let us now, says I, enter upon the second stanza; I find the first line is still a continuation of the metaphor.

I fancy, when your song you sing,

It is very right, says he; but pray observe the turn of words in those two lines. I was a whole hour in adjusting of them, and have still a doubt upon me, whether in the second line it should be Your song you sing;' or, 'You sing your song?'.You shall hear them both:

I fancy, when your song you sing,

(Your song you sing with so much art)

Or,

I fancy, when your song you sing,

(You sing your song with so much art)

Truly, faid I, the turn is so natural either way, that you have made me almost giddy with it. Dear sir, said he, grasping me by the hand, you have a great deal of patience; but pray, what do you think of the

next verse?

Your pen was pluck'd from Cupid's wing;

Think! says I; I think you have made Cupid look