surprize,
  Ne’er move the Head, tho’ they divert the Eyes. 
  The Mouthing Actors well-dissembled Rage,
  May please the Young Sir Foplings on the Stage. 
  But, disingag’d, the swelling Phrase I find
  Like Spencer’s Giant sunk away in Wind. 
  It grates judicious Readers when they meet
  Nothing but jingling Verse, and even Feet. 
  Such false, such counterfeited Wings as these,
  Forsake th’ unguided Boy, and plunge him in the Seas.
  Lee aim’d to rise above great Dryden’s Height,
  But lofty Dryden keeps a steddy Flight. 
  Like Daedalus, he times with prudent Care
  His well-wax’d Wings, and Waves in Middle Air. 
  The Native Spark, which first advanc’d his Name,
  By industry he kindled to a Flame. 
  The proper Phrase of our exalted Tongue
  To such Perfection from his Numbers sprung. 
  His Tropes continu’d, and his Figures fine,
  All of a Piece throughout, and all Divine.
  His Images so strong and lively be,
  I hear not Words alone, but Substance see;
  Adapted Speech, and just Expressions move
  Our various Passions, Pity, Rage and Love. 
  I weep to hear fond Anthony complain
  In Shakespear’s Fancy, but in Virgil’s Strain.

    Tho’ for the Comick, others we prefer,
  Himself[5] the Judge; nor do’s his Judgment Err. 
  But Comedy, ’tis Thought, can never claim
  The sounding Title of a Poem’s Name. 
  For Raillery, and what creates a Smile
  Betrays no lofty Genius, nor a Style. 
  That Heav’nly Heat refuses to be seen
  In a Town-Character and Comick Mien.

[5] See Preface to Aurengzebe.

    If we would do him right, we must produce
  The Sophoclean Buskin; when his Muse
  With her loud Accents fills the list’ning Ear,
  And Peals applauding shake the Theater.

    They fondly seek, Great Name, to blast thy Praise,
  Who think that Foreign Thanks produc’d thy Bays. 
  Is he oblig’d to France, who draws from thence
  By English Energy, their Captive Sense? 
  Tho’ Edward and fam’d Henry Warr’d in vain,
  Subduing what they could not long retain: 
  Yet now beyond our Arms the Muse prevails,
  And Poets Conquer where the Hero fails.

  This does superiour excellence betray;
  O could I Write in thy Immortal Way! 
  If Art be Nature’s Scholar, and can make
  Such vast improvements, Nature must forsake
  Her Ancient Style; and in some grand Design
  She must her Own Originals decline,
  And for the Noblest Copies follow Thine. 
  Pardon this just transition to thy Praise,
  Which Young Thalia sung in Rural Lays.