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With other Fire his glorious Blenheim fines, And all the Battel thunders in his Lines; His nervous Verse great Boileau's Strength tran
[scends, And France to Philips, as to Churchill; bends.
Oh! Various Bard, you all our Pow'rs controul, You now disturb, and now divert the Soul: Milton and Bytler in thy Muse combine, Above the last thy manly Beauties shine ; For as I've feen when Rival Wits content, One gayly charge, one gravely wise defend This on quick Turns and Poinits in vain relies, This with a Look demure, and steddy Eyes, With dry Rebukes, or sneering Praise replies. So thy grave Lines extort a juster Smile, Reach Bøtler's Fancy, but furpass his Style; He speaks Scarron's low Phrafe in humble Strains, In Thee the folemn Air of great Cervantes reigns.
What sounding Lines his abje& Themes express,
So when Nurse Nokes to act young Ammon tries, With shạmbling Legs, long Chin, and foolish Eyės; With danglingHands he strokes th’Imperial Robe, And, with a Cuckold's Air commands the Globe ; The pomp and found the whole Buffoon display'd, And Ammon's Son more Mirth than Gomez made.
Forgive, dear Shade, the Scene my Folly draws, Thy Strains divert the Grief thy Afhes caufe: When Orpheus sings the Ghosts no more complain, But, in his lulling Musick, lose their Pain:
So charm the Sallies of thy Georgick Muse,
Blest Clime, which Vaga's fruitful Streams im
[prove, Etruria's Envy, and her Cofmo's Love; Redstreak he quaffs beneath the Chianti Vine, Gives Tuscan yearly for thy Scudmore's Wine, And ev'n his Tafo would exchange for thine.
Rife, rise, Roscommon, fee the Blenheim Mufe, The dull Constraint of monkish Rhyme refuse; :: Şee o'er the Alps his tow'ring Pinions foar,
Where never English Poet reach'd before :
See mighty Cofmo's Counseller and Friend,
Our Spencer, firft by Pifan Poets taught, To us theirTalesytheirStyle,and Numbers brought. To follow ours now Tuscan Bards descend, From Philips borrow, tho' to Spencer lend, Like Philips too the Yoke of Rhyme disdain; They first on English Bards impos’d the Chain, First by an English Bard from Rhyme their Free
Tyrannick Rhyme, that cramps to equal Chime, The gay, the soft, the florid, and fublime; Some say this Chain the doubtful Sense decides, Confines the Fancy, and the Judgment guides; I'm sure in needless Bonds it Poets tyes, Procrustes like, the Ax or Wheel applies, Tolop the mangled Sense, or stretch it into fize: At best a Crutch that lifts the weak along, Supports the feeble, but retards the ftrongs And the chance Thoughts, when govern'd by the
[close, Oft rise to Fustian, or descend to Profe. Your Judgment, Philips, rul'd with teddy sway, You us'd no curbing Rhyme, the Muse to stay, To stop her Fury, or dired her Way, Thee on the Wing thy uncheck'd Vigor bore; To wanton freely, or securely foaf.
So the stretch'd Cord the Shackle-Dancer tries, As prone to fall, as impotent to rise;