But hear their raptures o'er some specious rhime Dub'd by the musk'd and greasy mob sublime. 96 For spleen's dear sake hear how a coxcomb prates As clam'rous o'er his joys as fifty cats; _"Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, To soften rocks, and oaks"_--and all the rest: 100 _"I've heard"_--Bless these long ears!--"Heav'ns what a strain! Good God! What thunders burst in this _Campaign_! Hark Waller warbles! Ah! how sweetly killing! Then that inimitable Splendid Shilling! Rowe breathes all Shakespear here!--That ode of Prior 105 Is Spencer quite! egad his very fire!-- As like"--Yes faith! as gum-flowers to the rose, Or as to Claret flat Minorca's dose; As like as (if I am not grosly wrong) Erle Robert's Mice to aught e'er Chaucer sung. 110 Read boldly, and unprejudic'd peruse Each fav'rite modern, ev'n each ancient muse. With all the comic salt and tragic rage The great stupendous genius of our stage, Boast of our island, pride of human-kind, 115 Had faults to which the boxes are not blind. His frailties are to ev'ry gossip known: Yet Milton's pedantries not shock the town. Ne'er be the dupe of Names, however high; For some outlive good parts, some misapply. 120 Each elegant Spectator you admire; But must you therefore swear by Cato's fire? Masques for the court, and oft a clumsey jest, Disgrac'd the muse that wrought the Alchemist. "But to the ancients."--Faith! I am not clear, 125 For all the smooth round type of Elzevir, That every work which lasts in prose or song, Two thousand years, deserves to last so long. For not to mention some eternal blades Known only now in th' academic shades, 130 (Those sacred groves where raptur'd spirits stray, And in word-hunting waste the live-long day) Ancients whom none but curious critics scan, Do, read[A] Messala's praises if you can. Ah! who but feels the sweet contagious smart 135 While soft Tibullus pours his tender heart? With him the Loves and Muses melt in tears; But not a word of some hexameters. "You grow so squeamish and so dev'lish dry, You'll call Lucretius vapid next." Not I. 140 Some find him tedious, others think him lame: But if he lags his subject is to blame. Rough weary roads thro' barren wilds he tried, Yet still he marches with true Roman pride: Sometimes a meteor, gorgeous, rapid, bright, 145 He streams athwart the philosophic night. Find you in Horace no insipid Odes?-- He dar'd to tell us Homer sometimes nods; And but for such a aide's hardy skill Homer might slumber unsuspected still. 150 [Footnote A: A poem of Tibullus's in hexameter verse; as yawning and insipid as his elegies are tender and natural.]