The Ode is bolder, and has greater force; Mounting to heaven in her ambitious flight, Amongst the Gods and heroes takes delight; Of Pisa's wrestlers tells the sinewy force, And sings the dusty conqueror's glorious course; To Simoïs' streams does fierce Achilles bring, And makes the Ganges bow to Britain's king. Sometimes she flies like an industrious bee, And robs the flowers by nature's chemistry, Describes the shepherd's dances, feasts, and bliss, And boasts from Phyllis to surprise a kiss, When gently she resists with feigned remorse, That what she grants may seem to be by force: Her generous style at random oft will part, And by a brave disorder shows her art. Unlike those fearful poets, whose cold rhyme In all their raptures keeps exactest time, That sing the illustrious hero's mighty praise (Lean writers!) by the terms of weeks and days; And dare not from least circumstances part, But take all towns by strictest rules of art: Apollo drives those fops from his abode; And some have said that once the humorous god Resolving all such scribblers to confound, For the short Sonnet ordered this strict bound; Set rules for the just measure, and the time, The easy running and alternate rhyme; But above all, those licences denied Which in these writings the lame sense supplied; Forbade an useless line should find a place, Or a repeated word appear with grace. A faultless Sonnet, finished thus, would be Worth tedious volumes of loose poetry. A hundred scribbling authors without ground, Believe they have this only phœnix found: When yet the exactest scarce have two or three, Among whole tomes from faults and censure free. The rest, but little read, regarded less, Are shovelled to the pastry from the press. Closing the sense within the measured time, 'Tis hard to fit the reason to the rhyme. EPIGRAM.