As Sleep to weary Drovers on the Plain
  As a sweet River to a thirsty Swain,
  Such Tityrus’s charming Number show,
  Please like the River, like the River flow. 
  When his first Years in mighty Order ran,
  And cradled Infancy bespoke the Man,
  Around his Lips the Waxen Artists hung,
  And drop’d ambrosial Dew upon his Tongue. 
  Then from his Mouth harmonious Numbers broke,
  More sweet than Honey from a hollow Oke. 
  Pleasant as streams which from a Mountain Glide,
  Yet lofty as the Top from whence they slide.

    Long He possest th’ Hereditary Plains,
  Admir’d by all the Herdsmen and the Swains. 
  Till he resign’d his Flock, opprest with cares,
  Weaken’d by num’rous Woes, and grey with Years. 
  Yet still, like AEtna’s Mount, he kept his Fire,
  And look’d like beauteous Roses on a Brier. 
  He smil’d, like Phoebus in a Stormy Morn,
  And sung, like Philomel against a Thorn.

    Here Syren of sweet Poesy, receive
  That little praise my unknown Muse can give. 
  Thou shalt immortal be, no Censure fear
  Tho’ angry B——­more in Heroicks jeer.

    A Bard, who seems to challenge Virgil’s Flame,
  And would be next in Majesty and Name. 
  With lofty Maro he at first may please;
  The Righteous Briton rises by degrees. 
  But once on Wing, thro’ secret Paths he rows,
  And leaves his Guide, or follows him too close,
  The Mantuan Swan keeps a soft gentle Flight,
  Is always Tow’ring, but still Plays in Sight. 
  Calm and Serene his Verse; his active Song
  Runs smooth as Thames’s River, and as strong. 
  Like his own Neptune he the Waves confines,
  While Bl——­re rumbles, like the King of Winds. 
  His flat Descriptions, void of Manly Strength,
  Jade out our Patience with excessive length. 
  While Readers, Yawning o’er his Arthurs see
  Whole Pages spun on one poor Simile. 
  We grant he labours with no want of Brains,
  Or Fire, or Spirit; but He spares the Pains,
  One happy Thought, or two, may at a Heat
  Be struck, but Time and Study must compleat
  A Verse, sublimely Good, and justly Great. 
  It call’d for an Omnipotence to raise
  The World’s Imperial Poem in Six Days. 
  But Man, that offspring of corrupting Clay,
  Subject to Err, and Subject to Decay: 
  In Hopes, Desires, Will, Power, a numerous Train,
  Uncertain, Fickle, Impotent and Vain: 
  Must tire the Heav’nly Muse with endless Prayer,
  And call the smiling Angels to his care. 
  Must sleep less Nights, Vulcanian Labours prove,
  Like Cyclops, forging Thunder for a Jove. 
  With Flame begin thy Glorious Thoughts and Style,
  Then Cool, and bring them to the smoothing