_What tho' the Pear Tree rival not the Worth Of_ Ariconian _Products, yet her Freight Is not contemn'd, and her wide branching Arms Best screen thy Mansion from the fervent Dog, Adverse to Life. The wintry Hurricanes In vain employ their Roar; her Trunk unmov'd, Breaks the strong Onset, and controuls their Rage; Chiefly the_ Bosbury, _whose large Increase, Annual in sumptuous Banquets, claims Applause. Thrice acceptable_ Bevrage! _could but Art Subdue the floating_ Lee, Pomona_'s self Would dread thy Praise, and shun the dubious Strife. Be it thy Choice, when Summer Heats annoy, To sit beneath her leavy Canopy, Quaffing rich Liquids, Oh! how sweet t'enjoy At once her Fruits, and hospitable Shade._ I have never met with any Author who so happily imitated the manner and stile of _Milton_ as _Philips_ has done, and there seems to be hardly any other Difference than that of the Subjects they wrote of. What I have quoted out of _L'Estrange_ is nothing to the Delicacy of a modern Writer of Plays, who without Wit, Language, Learning, or Manners, wrote three or four Farces, which took as much as _Pradon_'s in _France_; but the _English_ have not recollected themselves so soon as the _French_ did; for _Pradon_ out-liv'd the Vogue he was in, and became a greater Jest than ever he had made. What think ye of our Poet's Delicacy and Wit, who in a gallant Letter to his Mistress, tells her, _He's gall'd with riding, Love is forging Darts in his Belly; he's a Dog in a Doublet_, &c. There's a deal of graver Nonsense with it, but it being mostly _Blasphemy_, I dare not repeat it. This Author had his Portion of temporary Fame. _Ogilvy_ had his Day, and _Dryden_ says: _Fame, like a little Mistress of the Town, Is gain'd with Ease; but then she's lost as soon._