Again,

    In Pictures none hereafter will delight,
    You draw more to the Life in black and white;
    The Pencil to your Pen must yield the Place,
    This draws the Soul, where that draws but the Face.

But having thank’d these noble Lords for their Suffrage, we will proceed to some other Witnesses of Quality:  And first I beg leave to appeal to my Lord Duke of Buckinghamshire, his Translation of The Temple of Death;

    Her Chains were Marks of Honour to the Brave,
    She made a Prince when e’er she made a Slave.

Again,

    By wounding me, she learnt the fatal Art,
    And the first Sigh she had, was from my Heart.

My Lord Hallifax’s Muse hath been very indulgent to Monosyllables, and no Son of Apollo will dare to dispute his Authority in this Matter.  Speaking of the Death of King Charles the Second, and his Improvement of Navigation, and Shipping; he says,

    To ev’ry Coast, with ready Sails are hurl’d,
    Fill us with Wealth, and with our Fame the World.

Again,

    Us from our Foes, and from our selves did shield.

Again,

    As the stout Oak, when round his Trunk the Vine
    Does in soft Wreaths, and amorous Foldings twine.

And again,

    In Charles, so good a Man and King, we see,
    A double Image of the Deity. 
    Oh!  Had he more resembled it!  Oh why
    Was he not still more like; and cou’d not die?

My Lord Landsdown’s Muse, which may claim her Seat in the highest
Point of Parnassus, gives us these Instances of her Sentiments in our
Favour;

    So own’d by Heaven, less glorious far was he,
    Great God of Verse, than I, thus prais’d by thee.

Again on Mira’s singing,

    The Slave that from her Wit or Beauty flies,
    If she but reach him with her Voice, he dies.

In such noble Company, I imagin Mr. Addison will not be ashamed to appear, thus speaking of Mr. Cowley;

    His Turns too closely on the Reader press;
    He more had pleas’d us, had he pleas’d us less.

And of Mr. Waller,

    Oh had thy Muse not come an Age too soon.

And of Mr. Dryden’s Muse,

    Whether in Comick Sounds or Tragick Airs
    She forms her Voice, she moves our Smiles or Tears.

And to his Friend Dr. Sacheverell,

    I’ve done at length, and now, dear Friend, receive
    The last poor Present that my Muse can give. 
    And so at once, dear Friend and Muse, fare well.

To these let me add the Testimony of that Darling of the Muses, Mr. Prior, with whom all the Poets of ancient and modern Times of other Nations, or our own, might seem to have intrusted the chief Secrets, and greatest Treasures of their Art.  I shall speak only concerning our own Island, where his Imitation of Chaucer, of Spencer, and of the old Scotch Poem, inscribed the Nut-Brown Maid, shew how great a Master he is, and how much every thing is to be valued which bears the Stamp of his Approbation.  And we shall certainly find a great deal to countenance the use of Monosyllables in his Writings.  Take these Examples;