And all surprised about it wondering stand,
And though no name be found below,
Yet straight discern the inimitable hand,
And straight they cry 'tis Titian, or 'tis Angelo:
So thy brave soul, that scorned all cheap and easy ways,
And trod no common road to praise,
Would not with rash, and speedy negligence proceed,
(For whoe'er saw perfection grow in haste?
Or that soon done, which must for ever last?)
But gently did advance with wary heed,
And shewed that mastery is most in justness read:
Nought ever issued from thy teeming breast,
But what had gone full time, could write exactly best,
And stand the sharpest censure, and defy the rigidest test.
12
Our weak, and meaner acts with His compare)
When He the world's fair poem did of old design,
(That work, which now must boast no longer date than
thine,)
Though 'twas in Him alike to will and do,
Though the same Word that spoke, could make it too,
Yet would He not such quick, and hasty measures use,
Nor did an instant (which it might) the great effect produce;
But when the All-wise himself in council sate,
Vouchsafed to think and be deliberate.
When Heaven considered, and the Eternal Wit and Sense,
Seemed to take time, and care, and pains,
It shewed that some uncommon birth,
That something worthy of a God was coming forth;
Nought incorrect there was, nought faulty there,
No point amiss did in the large voluminous piece appear;
And when the glorious Author all surveyed,
Surveyed whatever His mighty labours made,
