_Some blast thy_ Works _lest we should track their Walke
Where they steale all those few good things they talke;
Wit-Burglary must chide those it feeds on,
For Plundered folkes ought to be rail'd upon;
But (as stoln goods goe off at halfe their worth)
Thy strong Sence_ pall's _when they purloine it forth.
When did'st_ Thou _borrow? wkere's the man e're read
Ought begged by_ Thee _from those Alive or Dead?
Or from dry_ Goddesses, _as some who when
They stuffe their page with Godds, write worse then Men.
Thou was't thine_ owne _Muse, and hadst such vast odds
Thou out-writ'st him whose verse_ made _all those_ Godds:
_Surpassing those our Dwarfish Age up reares,
As much as_ Greeks _or_ Latines _thee in yeares:
Thy Ocean Fancy knew nor Bankes nor Damms,
We ebbe downe dry to pebble_-Anagrams;
_Dead and insipid, all despairing sit
Lost to behold this great_ Relapse _of_ Wit:
_What strength remaines, is like that (wilde and fierce)
Till_ Johnson _made good Poets and right Verse.
Such boyst'rous Trifles Thy Muse would not brooke,
Save when she'd show how scurvily they looke;
No savage Metaphors (things rudely Great)
Thou dost_ display, _not_ butcher _a Conceit;
Thy Nerves have_ Beauty, _which Invades and Charms;
Lookes like a Princesse harness'd in bright Armes.
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