s, who
Retire to think, 'cause they have naught to do.
But thoughts are given for action's government,
Where action ceases, thought's impertinent."

Whether these ideas are true or false, it is certain they are expressed
with an energy and fire which form the poet. I shall be very far from
attempting to examine philosophically into these verses, to lay down the
pencil, and take up the rule and compass on this occasion; my only design
in this letter being to display the genius of the English poets, and
therefore I shall continue in the same view.

The celebrated Mr. Waller has been very much talked of in France, and Mr.
De la Fontaine, St. Evremont, and Bayle have written his eulogium, but
still his name only is known. He had much the same reputation in London
as Voiture had in Paris, and in my opinion deserved it better. Voiture
was born in an age that was just emerging from barbarity; an age that was
still rude and ignorant, the people of which aimed at wit, though they
had not the least pretensions to it, and sought for points and conceits
instead of sentiments. Bristol stones are more easily found than
diamonds. Voiture, born with an easy and frivolous, genius, was the
first who shone in this aurora of French literature. Had he come into
the world after those great geniuses who spread such a glory over the age
of Louis XIV., he would either have been unknown, would have been
despised, or would have corrected his style. Boileau applauded him, but
it was in his first satires, at a time when the taste of that great poet
was not yet formed. He was young, and in an age when persons form a
judgment of men from their reputation, and not from their writings.
Besides, Boileau was very partial both in his encomiums and his censures.
He applauded Segrais, whose works nobody reads; he abused Quinault, whose
poetical pieces every one has got by heart; and is wholly silent upon La
Fontaine. Waller, though a better poet than Voiture, was not yet a
finished poet. The graces breathe in such of Waller's works as are writ
in a tender strain; but then they are languid through negligence, and
often disfigured with false thoughts. The English had not in his time
attained the art of correct writing. But his serious compositions
exhibit a strength and vigour which could not have been expected from the
softness and effeminacy of his other pieces. He wrote an elegy on Oliver
Cromwell, which, with all its faults, is neve