Would he the _Town's loose way_ of Writing leave, } More Worth than all their Forfeit Lands will give: } _Justness_ of _Thought_, a _Courtly Style_, and clear, 690 And well-wrought _Passions_ in his _Works_ appear: None knows with _finer Strokes_ our Souls to move, And as he please we _smile_, or _weep_, or _love_. When _Dryden_ goes, 'tis he must fill the _Chair_, _With_ Congreve _only_ Congreve _can compare_. Yet, tho he _natural_ is as untaught Loves, His _Style_ as _smooth_ as _Cytherea_'s Doves, When e'er unbyass'd _Judges_ read him o'er, He sometimes _nodds_, as _Homer_ did before: Some Lines his most _Admirers_ scarce would please, 700 Nor _B----_'s Verse alone could _raise Disease_.[7] For _smooth_ and _well turn'd Lines_ we _T----_ admire, Who has in _Justness_ what he wants in _Fire_: Each _Rhime_, each _Syllable_ well-weigh'd and fair, His _Life_ and _Manners_ scarce more _regular_. With _Strength_ and _Flame_ prodigious _D----s_ writes Of _Loves_ lost _Wars_, and cruel martial _Fights_: Scarce LEE himself strove with a _mightier Load_, Or _labour'd_ more beneath th' _Incumbent God_: Whate'er of old to _Rome_ or _Athens_ known, 710 What _France_ or _We_ have _glean'd_, 'tis all his _own_. How few can equal _Praise_ with _C----ch_ obtain, Who made _Lucretius smooth_, and _chast_, and _plain_? Courted by _Fame_ he could her _Charms_ despise, } Still woo'd by that _false Fair_ he still denies, } And press'd, for _Refuge_ to the _Altar_ flies; } Like _votive Tablets_ offers up his _Bays_, "_And leaves to our lewd Town the Drudgery of Plays_." In lofty _Raptures_, born on Angels Wings } Above the _Clouds_, above _Castalian Springs_, } 720 N---- inspir'd, of God and _Nature_ sings; } And if one _Glance_ on this _poor World_ he throw, If e'er he mind the _Croud_ and _Buzz_ below; Pities our _fruitless Pains_ for _Fame_ and _Praise_, And wonders why we _drudge_ for _Crowns_ and _Bays_. Could _B_---- be _sober_, many he'd excel, Few know the _Antients_, or could use so well; But ah! his _Genius_ with his _Virtue's_ fled, Condemn'd to _Want of Grace_ and _Want of Bread_. Ev'n Envy _B----re's Subject_ must confess } 730 _Exact_ and _rare_, a _curious Happiness_, } Nor many could the _Fable better dress_: } Of _Words_ what _Compass_, and how vast a _Store_! His _Courage_ and his _Vertue's_ only more: More various _Scenes of Death_ his _Fights_ display Then _Aghrim's_ Field or _London's_ fatal Day: Let beauteous _Elda's Tears_ and _Passion_ prove His _Soul_ is not _unknowing how to love_: Disrob'd of _Clouds_ he view'd the _Stagyrite_ As _Nature_ he, confess'd to _Human sight_: His _Rules_ surveys, and traces to their _Springs_, } 740 Where the _blind Bard_ of flaming _Ilium_ sings; }