ed, are the motto of
it, taken from the poem.

Shame on your jingling, ye soft sons of rhyme,
Tuneful consumers of your reader's time!
Fancy's light dwarfs! whose feather-footed strains,
Dance in wild windings, thro' a waste of brains:
Your's is the guilt of all, who judging wrong,
Mistake tun'd nonsense for the poet's song.

He likewise in this piece, reproves the above named celebrated author,
for descending below his genius; and in speaking of the inspiration of
the Muse, he says,

I feel her now.--Th'invader fires my breast:
And my soul swells, to suit the heav'nly guest.
Hear her, O Pope!--She sounds th'inspir'd decree,
Thou great Arch-Angel of wit's heav'n! for thee!
Let vulgar genii, sour'd by sharp disdain,
Piqu'd and malignant, words low war maintain,
While every meaner art exerts her aim,
O'er rival arts, to list her question'd fame;
Let half-soul'd poets still on poets fall,
And teach the willing world to scorn them all.
But, let no Muse, pre-eminent as thine,
Of voice melodious, and of force divine,
Stung by wits, wasps, all rights of rank forego,
And turn, and snarl, and bite, at every foe.
No--like thy own Ulysses, make no stay
Shun monsters--and pursue thy streamy way.

In 1731 he brought his Tragedy of Athelwold upon the stage in
Drury-Lane; which, as he says in his preface to it, was written on the
same subject as his Elfrid or the Fair Inconstant, which he there calls,
'An unprun'd wilderness of fancy, with here and there a flower among the
leaves; but without any fruit of judgment.'--

He likewise mentions it as a folly, having began and finished Elfrid in
a week; and both the difference of time and judgment are visible in
favour of the last of those performances.

That year he met the greatest shock that affliction ever gave him; in
the loss of one of the most worthy of wives, to whom he had been married
above twenty years.

The following epitaph he wrote, and purpos'd for a monument which he
designed to erect over her grave.

Enough, cold stone! suffice her long-lov'd name;
Words are too weak to pay her virtues claim.
Temples, and tombs, and tongues, shall waste away,
And power's vain pomp, in mould'ring dust decay.
But e'er mankind a wife more perfect see,
Eternity, O Time! shall bury thee.

He was a man susceptible of love, in its sublimest sense; as may be seen
in that poetical description of that passion, which he has