net I am going to read to you was written upon a lady, who
showed me some verses of her own making, and is, perhaps, the best poet
of our age. But you shall hear it."

Upon which he began to read as follows:

"TO MIRA, ON HER INCOMPARABLE POEMS.

1.
"When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine,
And tune your soft melodious notes,
You seem a sister of the Nine,
Or Phoebus' self in petticoats.

2.
"I fancy, when your song you sing,
Your song you sing with so much art,
Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing;
For, ah! it wounds me like his dart."

"Why," says I, "this is a little nosegay of conceits, a very lump of
salt: every verse has something in it that piques; and then the dart in
the last line is certainly as pretty a sting in the tail of an epigram,
for so I think you critics call it, as ever entered into the thought
of a poet." "Dear Mr. Bickerstaff," says he, shaking me by the hand,
"everybody knows you to be a judge of these things; and, to tell you
truly, I read over Roscommon's translation of Horace's 'Art of Poetry'
three several times before I sat down to write the sonnet which I have
shown you. But you shall hear it again, and pray observe every line of
it; for not one of them shall pass without your approbation.

"'When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine,'

"That is," says he, "when you have your garland on; when you are writing
verses." To which I replied, "I know your meaning: a metaphor!" "The
same," said he, and went on.

"'And tune your soft melodious notes,'

"Pray observe the gliding of that verse; there is scarce a consonant
in it: I took care to make it run upon liquids. Give me your opinion
of it." "Truly," said I, "I think it as good as the former." "I am very
glad to hear you say so," says he; "but mind the next.

"'You seem a sister of the Nine,

"That is," says he, "you seem a sister of the Muses; for, if you look
into ancient authors, you will find it was their opinion that there were
nine of them." "I remember it very well," said I; "but pray proceed."

"'Or Phoebus' self in petticoats.'

"Phoebus," says he, "was the god of Poetry. These little instances, Mr.
Bickerstaff, show a gentleman's reading. Then to take off from the air
of learning, which Phoebus and the Muses had given to this first stanza,
you may observe, how it falls all of a sudden into the familiar; 'in
petticoats!'

"'Or Phoebus' self i