And feels that grace his prayer besought in vain;
The blessing thrills through all the labouring throng,
And Heaven is won by violence of song. 
Our rural ancestors, with little blessed,
Patient of labour when the end was rest,
Indulged the day that housed their annual grain,
With feasts, and offerings, and a thankful strain: 
The joy their wives, their sons, and servants share,
Ease of their toil, and partners of their care: 
The laugh, the jest, attendants on the bowl,
Smoothed every brow, and opened every soul: 
With growing years the pleasing licence grew,
And taunts alternate innocently flew. 
But times corrupt, and nature, ill-inclined,
Produced the point that left a sting behind;
Till friend with friend, and families at strife,
Triumphant malice raged through private life. 
Who felt the wrong, or feared it, took th’ alarm,
Appealed to law, and justice lent her arm. 
At length, by wholesome dread of statutes bound,
The poets learned to please, and not to wound: 
Most warped to flattery’s side; but some, more nice,
Preserved the freedom, and forbore the vice. 
Hence satire rose, that just the medium hit,
And heals with morals what it hurts with wit. 
We conquered France, but felt our captive’s charms;
Her arts victorious triumphed o’er our arms;
Britain to soft refinements less a foe,
Wit grew polite, and numbers learned to flow. 
Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join
The varying verse, the full-resounding line,
The long majestic march, and energy divine. 
Though still some traces of our rustic vein,
And splay-foot verse, remained, and will remain. 
Late, very late, correctness grew our care,
When the tired nation breathed from civil war. 
Exact Racine, and Corneille’s noble fire,
Showed us that France had something to admire. 
Not but the tragic spirit was our own,
And full in Shakespeare, fair in Otway shone: 
But Otway failed to polish or refine,
And fluent Shakespeare scarce effaced a line. 
Even copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,
The last and greatest art, the art to blot. 
Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire
The humbler muse of comedy require. 
But in known images of life, I guess
The labour greater, as th’ indulgence less. 
Observe how seldom even the best succeed: 
Tell me if Congreve’s fools are fools indeed? 
What pert, low dialogue has Farquhar writ! 
How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit! 
The stage how loosely does Astraea tread,
Who fairly puts all characters to bed! 
And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws,
To make poor Pinky eat with vast applause! 
But fill their purse, our poet’s work is done,
Alike to them, by pathos or by pun.

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