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Whose Rayling Heroe's, and whose wounded Gods,
Make some suspect, He Snores, as well as Nods.
But I offend—Virgil begins to Frown,
And Horace looks with Indignation down;
My blushing Muse with Conscious Fear retires,
And whom They Like, Implicitely Admires.
Make some suspect, He Snores, as well as Nods.
But I offend—Virgil begins to Frown,
And Horace looks with Indignation down;
My blushing Muse with Conscious Fear retires,
And whom They Like, Implicitely Admires.
On sure Foundations let your Fabrick Rise,
And with inviting Majesty surprise,
Not by affected, meretricious Arts,
But strict harmonious Symetry of Parts.
Which through the Whole, insensibly must pass,
With vital Heat to Animate the Mass.
A pure, an Active, an Auspicious Flame,
And bright as Heav'n, from whence the Blessing came;
But, few, oh, few, Souls, præordain'd by Fate,
The Race of Gods, have reach'd that envy'd Height.
And with inviting Majesty surprise,
Not by affected, meretricious Arts,
But strict harmonious Symetry of Parts.
Which through the Whole, insensibly must pass,
With vital Heat to Animate the Mass.
A pure, an Active, an Auspicious Flame,
And bright as Heav'n, from whence the Blessing came;
But, few, oh, few, Souls, præordain'd by Fate,
The Race of Gods, have reach'd that envy'd Height.
No
