To far Barbadoes on the western main;
  Of his dominion may no end be known,
  And greater than his father’s be his throne;
  Beyond Love’s kingdom let him stretch his pen!—­”
  He paus’d, and all the people cry’d “Amen”. 
  Then thus continu’d he:  “My son, advance
  Still in new impudence, new ignorance. 
  Success let others teach, learn thou from me
  Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry. 
  Let Virtuosos in five years be writ;
  Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. 
  Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,
  Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
  Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
  And in their folly show the writer’s wit. 
  Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,
  And justify their authors’ want of sense. 
  Let ’em be all by thy own model made
  Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid;
  That they to future ages may be known,
  Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own. 
  Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,
  All full of thee, and diff’ring but in name. 
  But let no alien Sedley interpose,
  To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose. 
  And when false flowers of rhetorick thou would’st cull,
  Trust Nature, do not labour to be dull;
  But write thy best, and top; and, in each line,
  Sir Formal’s oratory will be thine: 
  Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,
  And does thy Northern Dedications fill. 
  Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,
  By arrogating Jonson’s hostile name. 
  Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
  And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise. 
  Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part: 
  What share have we in Nature or in Art? 
  Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,
  And rail at arts he did not understand? 
  Where made he love in Prince Nicander’s vein,
  Or swept the dust in Psyche’s humble strain? 
  Where sold he bargains, whip-stitch, kiss my arse,
  Promis’d a play, and dwindled to a farce? 
  When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,
  As thou whole Eth’ridge dost transfuse to thine? 
  But so transfus’d, as oil and waters flow,
  His always floats above, thine sinks below. 
  This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
  New humours to invent for each new play: 
  This is that boasted bias of thy mind,
  By which, one way, to dulness ’tis inclin’d: 
  Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,
  And, in all changes, that way bends thy will. 
  Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence
  Of likeness; thine’s a tympany of sense. 
  A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,
  But sure thou’rt but a kilderkin of wit. 
  Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;
  Thy tragic muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep. 
  With whate’er gall thou set’st thyself to write,
  Thy inoffensive satires never bite.