Alloy,
  Melted it down, and slung the Dross away
  He dug pure Silver from a Roman Mine,
  And prest his Sacred Image on the Coyn. 
  We all rejoyc’d to see the pillag’d Oar,
  Our Tongue inrich’d, which was so poor before. 
  Fear not, Learn’d Poet, our impartial blame,
  Such Thefts as these add Lustre to thy Name. 
  Whether thy labour’d Comedies betray
  The Sweat of Terence, in thy Glorious way,
  Or Catliine plots better in thy Play. 
  Whether his Crimes more excellently shine,
  Whether we hear the Consul’s Voice Divine,
  And doubt which merits most, Rome’s Cicero, or Thine. 
  All yield, consenting to sustain the Yoke,
  And learn the Language which the Victor spoke. 
  So Macedon’s Imperial Hero threw
  His wings abroad, and conquer’d as he flew. 
  Great Johnson’s Deeds stand Parallel with His,
  Were Noble Thefts, Successful Pyracies.

    Souls of a Heroe’s, or a Poet’s Frame
  Are fill’d with larger particles of flame. 
  Scorning confinement, for more Land they groan,
  And stretch beyond the Limits of their Own.

[Fletcher and Beaument]

    Fletcher, whose Wit, like some luxuriant Vine,
  Profusely wanton’d in each golden Line. 
  Who, prodigal of Sense, by Beaumont’s care,
  Was prun’d so wisely, and became so fair. 
  Could from his copious Brain new Humours bring,
  A bragging Bessus, or inconstant King. 
  Could Laughter thence, here melting pity raise
  In his Amyntors, and Aspasia’s. 
  But Rome and Athens must the Plots produce
  With France, the Handmaid of the English Muse

[Shakespear.]

    Ev’n Shakespear sweated in his narrow Isle,
  And Subject Italy obey’d his Stile.
  Boccace and Cinthio must a tribute pay,
  T’inrich his Scenes, and furnish out a Play. 
  Tho’ Art ne’re taught him how to write by Rules,
  Or borrow Learning from Athenian Schools: 
  Yet He, with Plautus, could instruct and please,
  And what requir’d long toil, perform with ease. 
  By inborn strength so Theseus bent the Pine,
  Which cost the Robber many Years Design[2].

[2] See Plutarch’s Life of Theseus.

    Tho’ sometimes rude, unpolish’d and undrest
  His Sentence flows, more careless than the rest. 
  Yet, when his Muse, complying with his will,
  Deigns with informing heat his Breast to fill,
  Then hear him thunder in the Pompous strain
  Of AEschylus, or sooth in Ovid’s vein. 
  I feel a Pity working in my Eyes,
  When Desdemona by Othello dyes. 
  When I view Brutus in his Dress appear;
  I know not how to call him too severe. 
  His rigid Vertue there attories for all,
  And makes a Sacrifice of Caesar’s Fall.