Against thy verse Time sees with pain,
He whets his envious sithe in vain;
For, though from thee he much may pare,
Yet much thou still wilt have to spare.
Thou hast alone the skill to feast
With Roman elegance of taste,
Who hast of rhymes as vast resources
As Pompey's caterer of courses.
O thou, of all the Nine inspir'd!
My languid soul, with teaching tir'd,
How is it raptur'd, when it thinks
On thy harmonious set of clinks;
Each answering each in various rhymes,
Like Echo to St. Patrick's chimes!
Thy Muse, majestick in her rage,
Moves like Statira on the stage;
And scarcely can one page sustain
The length of such a flowing train:
Her train, of variegated die,
Shows like Thaumantia's in the sky;
Alike they glow, alike they please,
Alike imprest by Phœbus' rays.
Thy verse — (Ye Gods! I cannot bear it)
To what, to what shall I compare it?
'Tis like, what I have oft heard spoke on,
The famous statue of Laocoon.
'Tis like, — O yes, 'tis very like it,
The long, long string, with which you fly kite.
'Tis like what you, and one or two more,
Roar to your Echo[1] in good humour;
And every couplet thou hast writ
Concludes like Rattah-whittah-whit[2].
TO
