Old mother Wit and nature gave Shakespear, and Fletcher all they have; In Spencer and in Johnson art, Of slower nature, got the start. But both in him so equal are, None knows which bears the happiest share. To him no author was unknown, Yet what he wrote was all his own: He melted not the ancient gold, Nor, with Ben Johnson, did make bold. To plunder all the Roman stores Of poets and of orators. Horace's wit, and Virgil's state, He did not steal, but emulate; And he would like to them appear, Their garb, but not their cloaths did wear. He not from Rome alone but Greece, Like Johnson, brought the golden fleece. And a stiff gale, (as Flaccus sings) The Theban swan extends his wings, When thro' th' æthereal clouds he flies, To the same pitch our swan doth rise: Old Pindar's flights by him new-reach'd, When on that gale, his wings are stretch'd. [Footnote 1: Ath. Oxon. vol. ii.] [Footnote 2: Wood.] [Footnote 3: In the preface to 2d edition, 1736, 4to.] * * * * * THOMAS KILLEGREW, A Gentleman, who was page of honour to king Charles I. and groom of the bed-chamber to king Charles II. with whom he endured twenty-years exile. During his abode beyond sea, he took a view of France, Italy and Spain, and was honoured by his majesty, with the employment of resident at the state of Venice, whither he was sent in August 1651. During his exile abroad, he applied his leisure hours to the study of poetry, and the composition of Several plays, of which Sir John Denham. in a jocular way takes notice, in his copy of verses on our author's return from his embassy from Venice. I. Our resident Tom, From Venice is come, And hath left the statesman behind him. Talks at the same pitch, Is as wise, is as rich, And just where you left him, you find him. II. But who says he was not, A man of much plot, May repent that false accusation; Having plotted, and penn'd Six plays to attend, The farce of his negotiation.