'Lo! Rome herself, proud mistress now no more Of arts, but thundering against heathen lore; Her gray-hair'd synods damning books unread, And Bacon trembling for his brazen head. Padua, with sighs, beholds her Livy burn, And ev'n the Antipodes Virgilius mourn. See, the cirque falls, the unpillar'd temple nods, Streets paved with heroes, Tiber choked with gods: Till Peter's keys some christen'd Jove adorn, And Pan to Moses lends his pagan horn; 110 See graceless Venus to a virgin turn'd, Or Phidias broken, and Apelles burn'd. 'Behold yon isle, by palmers, pilgrims trod, Men bearded, bald, cowl'd, uncowl'd, shod, unshod, Peel'd, patch'd, and piebald, linsey-woolsey brothers, Grave mummers! sleeveless some, and shirtless others. That once was Britain--happy! had she seen No fiercer sons, had Easter never been.[357] In peace, great goddess, ever be adored; How keen the war, if Dulness draw the sword! 120 Thus visit not thy own! on this bless'd age Oh spread thy influence, but restrain thy rage. 'And see, my son! the hour is on its way That lifts our goddess to imperial sway; This favourite isle, long sever'd from her reign, Dove-like she gathers to her wings again. Now look through Fate! behold the scene she draws! What aids, what armies to assert her cause! See all her progeny, illustrious sight! Behold, and count them, as they rise to light. 130 As Berecynthia, while her offspring vie In homage to the mother of the sky, Surveys around her, in the bless'd abode, An hundred sons, and every son a god; Not with less glory mighty Dulness crown'd, Shall take through Grub Street her triumphant round; And her Parnassus glancing o'er at once, Behold an hundred sons, and each a dunce. 'Mark first that youth who takes the foremost place, And thrusts his person full into your face. 140 With all thy father's virtues bless'd, be born! And a new Cibber shall the stage adorn. 'A second see, by meeker manners known, And modest as the maid that sips alone; From the strong fate of drams if thou get free, Another D'Urfey, Ward! shall sing in thee. Thee shall each ale-house, thee each gill-house mourn, And answering gin-shops sourer sighs return. 'Jacob, the scourge of grammar, mark with awe,[358] Nor less revere him, blunderbuss of law. 150 Lo Popple's brow, tremendous to the town, Horneck's fierce eye, and Roome's[359] funereal frown. Lo, sneering Goode,[360] half-malice and half-whim, A fiend in glee, ridiculously grim. Each cygnet sweet, of Bath and Tunbridge race, Whose tuneful whistling makes the waters pass: Each songster, riddler, every nameless name, All crowd, who foremost shall be damn'd to fame. Some strain in rhyme; the Muses, on their racks, Scream like the winding of ten thousand jacks; 160 Some, free from rhyme or reason, rule or check, Break Priscian's head and Pegasus's neck; Down, down the 'larum, with impetuous whirl, The Pindars, and the Miltons of a Curll.