fit to be Crown'd,
At wont 'twas worth_ two hundred thousand pound.
_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.
Nor art Thou Loud and Cloudy; those that do
Thunder so much, do't without Lightning too;
Tearing themselves, and almost split their braine
To render harsh what thou speak'st free and cleane;
Such gloomy Sense may pass for_ High _and_ Proud,
_But true-born Wit still flies_ above _the_ Cloud;
_Thou knewst 'twas_ Impotence _what they call_ Height;
_Who blusters strong i'th Darke, but_ creeps _i'th Light.
And as thy thoughts were_ cleare, _so_, Innocent;
_Thy Phancy gave no unswept Language vent;
Slaunderst not_ Lawes, _prophan'st no_ holy Page,
(_As if thy Fathers_ Crosier _aw'd the Stage_;)
_High Crimes were still arraign'd, though they made shift
To prosper out_ foure Acts, _were plagu'd i'th_ Fift:
_All's safe, and wise; no stiffe-affected Scene,
Nor_ swoln, _nor_ flat, _a True Full Naturall veyne;
Thy Sence (like well-drest Ladies) cloath'd as skinn'd,
Not all unlac'd, nor City-startcht and pinn'd.
Thou hadst no Sloath, no Rage, no sullen Fit,
But_ Strength _and_ Mirth, FLETCHER'S _a_ Sanguin