Afterwards,

    More old than Jove, whom thou at first didst breed.

And,

    And now the Prey of Fowls in Field he lies.

Nor must Ben.  Johnson be forgotten;

    Thy Praise or Dispraise is to me alike;
    One doth not stroke me, nor the other strike.

Again,

    Curst be his Muse, that could lye dumb, or hid
    To so true Worth, though thou thy self forbid.

In this Train of Voters for Monosyllables, the inimitable Cowley marches next, whom we must not refuse to hear;

    Yet I must on; what Sound is’t strikes mine Ear? 
      Sure I Fames Trumpet hear.

And a little after,

    Come my best Friends, my Books, and lead me on;
      ’Tis time that I were gone. 
    Welcome, great Stagirite, and teach me now
      All I was born to know.

And commending Cicero, he says,

    Thou art the best of Orators; only he
    Who best can praise thee, next must be.

And of Virgil thus,

    Who brought green Poesy to her perfect Age,
      And made that Art, which was a Rage.

And in the beginning of the next Ode, he wou’d not certainly have apply’d himself to WIT in the harsh Cadence of Monosyllables, had he thought them so very harsh;

    Tell me, O tell, what kind of thing is Wit,
      Thou who Master art of it.

Again,

    In a true Piece of Wit all things must be
      Yet all things there agree.

But did he believe such Concord to be inconsistent with the use of Monosyllables, he had surely banished them from these two Lines; and were I to fetch Testimonies out of his Writings, I might pick a Jury of Twelve out of every Page.

And now comes Mr. Waller, and what does he with his Monosyllables, but,

    Give us new Rules, and set our Harp in Tune.

And that honourable Peer whom be commends, the Lord Roscommon thus keeps him in Countenance;

    Be what you will, so you be still the same.

And again,

    In her full Flight, and when she shou’d be curb’d.

Soon after,

    Use is the Judge, the Law, and Rule of Speech,

And by and by,

    We weep and laugh, as we see others do,
    He only makes me sad who shews the way: 
    But if you act them ill, I sleep or laugh.

The next I shall mention is my Lord Orrery, who, as Mr. Anthony Wood says, was a great Poet, Statesman, Soldier, and great every thing which merits the Name of Great and Good.  In his Poem to Mrs. Philips, he writes thus;

    For they imperfect Trophies to you raise,
    You deserve Wonder, and they pay but Praise;
    A Praise which is as short of your great due. 
    As all which yet have writ come short of you.