Thrice, with a prophet's voice, and prophet's power, The Muse was called in a poetic hour, And insolently thrice the slighted maid Dared to suspend her unregarded aid; Then with that grief we form in spirits divine, Pleads for her own neglect, and thus reproaches mine. Once highly honoured! false is the pretence You make to truth, retreat, and innocence! Who, to pollute my shades, bring'st with thee down The most ungenerous vices of the town; Ne'er sprung a youth from out this isle before I once esteem'd, and loved, and favour'd more, Nor ever maid endured such courtlike scorn, So much in mode, so very city-born; 'Tis with a foul design the Muse you send, Like a cast mistress, to your wicked friend; But find some new address, some fresh deceit, Nor practise such an antiquated cheat; These are the beaten methods of the stews, Stale forms, of course, all mean deceivers use, Who barbarously think to 'scape reproach, By prostituting her they first debauch. Thus did the Muse severe unkindly blame This offering long design'd to Congreve's fame; First chid the zeal as unpoetic fire, Which soon his merit forced her to inspire; Then call this verse, that speaks her largest aid, The greatest compliment she ever made, And wisely judge, no power beneath divine Could leap the bounds which part your world and mine; For, youth, believe, to you unseen, is fix'd A mighty gulf, unpassable betwixt. Nor tax the goddess of a mean design To praise your parts by publishing of mine; That be my thought when some large bulky writ Shows in the front the ambition of my wit; There to surmount what bears me up, and sing Like the victorious wren perch'd on the eagle's wing. This could I do, and proudly o'er him tower, Were my desires but heighten'd to my power. Godlike the force of my young Congreve's bays, Softening the Muse's thunder into praise; Sent to assist an old unvanquish'd pride That looks with scorn on half mankind beside; A pride that well suspends poor mortals' fate, Gets between them and my resentment's weight, Stands in the gap 'twixt me and wretched men, T'avert th'impending judgments of my pen. Thus I look down with mercy on the age, By hopes my Congreve will reform the stage: For never did poetic mind before Produce a richer vein, or cleaner ore; The bullion stamp'd in your refining mind Serves by retail to furnish half mankind. With indignation I behold your wit Forced on me, crack'd, and clipp'd, and counterfeit, By vile pretenders, who a stock maintain From broken scraps and filings of your brain. Through native dross your share is hardly known, And by short views mistook for all their own; So small the gains those from your wit do reap, Who blend it into folly's larger heap, Like the sun's scatter'd beams which loosely pass, When some rough hand breaks the assembling glass. Yet want your critics no just cause to rail, Since knaves are ne'er obliged for what they steal. These pad on wit's high road, and suits maintain