Rome raised not art, but barely kept alive, And with old Greece unequally did strive: Till Goths, and Vandals, a rude northern race, Did all the matchless monuments deface. Then all the Muses in one ruin be, And rhyme began to enervate poetry. 50 Thus, in a stupid military state, The pen and pencil find an equal fate. Flat faces, such as would disgrace a screen, Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen, Unraised, unrounded, were the rude delight Of brutal nations only born to fight. Long time, the sister arts, in iron sleep, A heavy sabbath did supinely keep: At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise, Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes. 60 Thence rose the Roman, and the Lombard line: One colour'd best, and one did best design. Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part, But Titian's painting look'd like Virgil's art. Thy genius gives thee both; where true design, Postures unforced, and lively colours join. Likeness is ever there; but still the best, Like proper thoughts in lofty language dress'd: Where light, to shades descending, plays, not strives, Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives. 70 Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought: Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought. Shakspeare, thy gift, I place before my sight; With awe, I ask his blessing ere I write; With reverence look on his majestic face; Proud to be less, but of his godlike race. His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write, And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight: Bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntless breast Contemn the bad, and emulate the best. 80 Like his, thy critics in the attempt are lost: When most they rail, know then, they envy most. In vain they snarl aloof; a noisy crowd, Like women's anger, impotent and loud. While they their barren industry deplore, Pass on secure, and mind the goal before. Old as she is, my Muse shall march behind, Bear off the blast, and intercept the wind. Our arts are sisters, though not twins in birth; For hymns were sung in Eden's happy earth: 90