He likewise in this piece, reproves the above named celebrated author, for descending below his genius; and in speaking of the inspiration of the Muse, he says, I feel her now.--Th'invader fires my breast: And my soul swells, to suit the heav'nly guest. Hear her, O Pope!--She sounds th'inspir'd decree, Thou great Arch-Angel of wit's heav'n! for thee! Let vulgar genii, sour'd by sharp disdain, Piqu'd and malignant, words low war maintain, While every meaner art exerts her aim, O'er rival arts, to list her question'd fame; Let half-soul'd poets still on poets fall, And teach the willing world to scorn them all. But, let no Muse, pre-eminent as thine, Of voice melodious, and of force divine, Stung by wits, wasps, all rights of rank forego, And turn, and snarl, and bite, at every foe. No--like thy own Ulysses, make no stay Shun monsters--and pursue thy streamy way. In 1731 he brought his Tragedy of Athelwold upon the stage in Drury-Lane; which, as he says in his preface to it, was written on the same subject as his Elfrid or the Fair Inconstant, which he there calls, 'An unprun'd wilderness of fancy, with here and there a flower among the leaves; but without any fruit of judgment.'-- He likewise mentions it as a folly, having began and finished Elfrid in a week; and both the difference of time and judgment are visible in favour of the last of those performances. That year he met the greatest shock that affliction ever gave him; in the loss of one of the most worthy of wives, to whom he had been married above twenty years. The following epitaph he wrote, and purpos'd for a monument which he designed to erect over her grave. Enough, cold stone! suffice her long-lov'd name; Words are too weak to pay her virtues claim. Temples, and tombs, and tongues, shall waste away, And power's vain pomp, in mould'ring dust decay. But e'er mankind a wife more perfect see, Eternity, O Time! shall bury thee. He was a man susceptible of love, in its sublimest sense; as may be seen in that poetical description of that passion, which he has given in his poem called the Picture of Love; wrote many years ago (from whence the following two lines are taken) No wild desire can this proud bliss bestow, Souls must be match'd in heav'n, tho' mix'd below. About the year 1735 he was concern'd with another gentleman in writing a paper called the Prompter; all those mark'd with a B. were his.--This was meant greatly for the service of the stage; and many of them have been regarded in the highest manner.--But, as there was not only instruction, but reproof, the bitter, with the sweet, by some could not be relish'd.