To descend to the lower Kinds, we meet with what Father _Bouhours_ calls _Pensées Jolliées_ pretty Thoughts; and we have of that Kind too in _English_, perhaps to a greater Degree of Excellence, than is to be found in any other Language; especially those Verses in the _Spectator_, which are said there to be Originals, as indeed they are, and inimitable. I question whether a Poet might not as easily imitate _Milton_ or _Butler_. There are ten _Stanza_'s, and they all of a like pretty, and natural Turn with the IIId STANZA. _The Fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft Murmurs the Pebbles among; Thou know'st little Cupid, if_ Phœbe _was there, 'Twere Pleasure to look at, 'twere Musick to hear: But now she is absent I walk by its Side, And still as it murmurs do nothing but chide; Must you be so chearful, while I go in Pain, Peace there with your Bubbling, and hear me complain._ How the _French_ may compare with us, as to this _pretty_ Manner, let us see by a Comparison. _Menage_ says, that this _Triolet_, as he calls it, a Sort of low Poetry where one or two Verses are repeated three Times, was the King of _Triolet_'s, and written by the famous Mons. _Ranchin_: Le premier Jour de May Fut le plus Heureux de ma Vie, Le beau Design que je formay Le premier Jour de May. _The first Day of the Month of_ May _Was the Happiest of my Life, Ah the fair Design I form'd The first Day if the Month of_ May. _Then saw you, then I lov'd, If you like this fair Design, The first Day of the Month of_ May _Was the Happiest of my Life._ Now let us see what an _English_ Poet has said on the First of _May_; and tho' there is in it hardly any Thing but Words, and those Words rustick to Affectation; yet they are _Prettiness_ itself compared to Mons. _Ranchin_'s Guardian, Nº 124: I. _Oh the charming Month of_ May, _Oh the charming Month of_ May, _When the Breezes fan the_ Treeses, _Full of Blossoms fresh and gay._ II. _Oh what Joys our Prospects yield! Charming Joys our Prospects yield! In a new Livery,_ &c. III. _Oh how fresh the Morning Air! Charming fresh the Morning Air!_ &c. Tho' there is little Meaning here, yet the Dancing of the Words and the Sprightliness of the Images, make it a prettier Lyrick than our _Italian_ Opera's can produce. According to my Conception nothing can be prettier than this Thought of _Buchanan_. Ilia mihi semper presenti dura _Neæra_; Me, quoties absum, semper abesse dolet; Non desiderio, nostro non mœret Amore, Sed se non nostro posse Dolore frui. _Cruel, when I am present, she appears; As often as I'm absent she's in Tears: Not that_ Neæra _wishes my Return, To see me love her, but to see me mourn._