they spoiled his Work, and he spoiled theirs_. And
for the second; what greater encouragement to Ingenuity than
Liberality? Hear what the Poet _Martial_ saith, _Lib. 10. Epig. 11._

_What deathless numbers from my Pen would flow,
What Wars would my_ Pierian _Trumpet blow,
If, as_ Augustus _now again did live,
So_ Rome _to me would a_ Mecaenas _give._

The ingenious Mr. _Oldham_, the glory of our late Age, in one of his
Satyrs, makes the renowned _Spenser_'s Ghost thus speak to him,
disswading him from the Study of Poetry.

_Chuse some old_ English _Hero for thy Theme,
Bold_ Arthur, _or great_ Edward_'s greater Son,
Or our fifth_ Henry, _matchless to renown;
Make_ Agin-Court, _and_ Crescy_-fields out-vie
The fam'd_ Laucinan_-shores, and walls of_ Troy;
_What_ Scipio, _what_ Maecenas _wouldst thou find;
What_ Sidney _now to thy great project kind?_
Bless me! how great a _Genius_! how each Line
Is big with Sense! how glorious a design
Does through the whole, and each proportion shine!

How lofty all his Thoughts, and how inspir'd!
Pity, such wondrous Parts are not preferr'd:
_Cry a gay wealthy Sot, who would not bail,
For bare Five Pounds the Author out of Jail,
Should he starve there and rot; who, if a Brief
Came out the needy Poets to relieve,
To the whole Tribe would scarce a Tester give._

But some will say, it is not so much the _Patrons_ as the _Poets_
fault, whose wide Mouths speak nothing but Bladders and Bumbast,
treating only of trifles, the Muses Haberdashers of small wares.

_Whose Wit is but a Tavern-Tympany,
The Shavings and the Chips of Poetry._

Indeed such Pedlars to the Muses, whose Verse runs like the Tap, and
whose invention ebbs and flows as the Barrel, deserve not the name of
Poets, and are justly rejected as the common Scriblers of the times:
but for such who fill'd with _Phebean_-fire, deserve to be crowned with
a wreath of Stars; for such brave Souls, the darlings of the _Delian_
Deity, for these to be scorn'd, contemn'd, and disregarded, must needs
be the fault of the times; I shall only give you one instance of a
renowned Poet, out of the same Author.

_On_ Butler_, who can think without just rage,
The glory and the scandal of the age,
Fair stood his hopes, when first he came to Town,
Met every where with welcoms of renown,
Courted, and lov'd by all, with wonder read,
And promises of Princely favour fed:
But what reward