he Seat of _Phoebus_ role, which lay
In Ruins buried, and a long Decay.
To _Britany_ the Temple was convey'd,
By Natures utmost force, and more than Human Aid.
Built from the _Basis_ by a noble Few,
The stately Fabrick in perfection view.
While Nature gazes on the polish'd piece,
The Work of many rowling Centuries.

For Joyn'd with Art She labour'd long to raise
An _English_ Poet, meriting the Bays.
How vain a Toil! Since Authors first were known
For _Greek_ and _Latin_ Tongues, but scorn'd their Own.

As _Moors_ of old, near _Guinea's_ precious Shore,
For glittering Brass exchang'd their shining Oar.
Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd,
Nor could we view the Goddess thro' the Cloud.

[_Chaucer_ and _Spencer_]

Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay,
Till _Chaucer_ rose, and pointed out the Day.
A joking Bard, whose antiquated Muse
In mouldy words could Solid sense produce.
Our _English Ennius_ He, who claim'd his part
In wealthy Nature, tho' unskil'd in Art.
The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghil shines,
And golden fragments glitter in his Lines.
Which _Spencer_ gather'd, for his Learning known,
And by successful gleanings made his Own.
So careful Bees, on a fair Summer's Day,
Hum o'er the Flowers, and suck the sweets away.
O had thy Poet, _Britany_, rely'd
On native Strength, and Foreign Aid deny'd!
Had not wild Fairies blasted his Design,
_Maeanides_ and _Virgil_ had been Thine!
Their Finish'd Poems He exactly view'd,
But _Chaucer's_ steps _religiously_ pursu'd.

[_Ben. Johnson_.]

He cull'd, and pick'd, and thought it greater praise
T'adore his Master, than improve his Phrase;
'Twas counted Sin to deviate from his Page;
So secred was th' Authority of Age!
The Coyn must sure for _currant Sterling_ pass,
Stamp'd with old _Chaucer's Venerable Face_.
But _Johnson_ found it of a gross _Alloy_,
Melted it down, and slung the Dross away
He dug pure Silver from a _Roman Mine_,
And prest his Sacred Image on the Coyn.
We all rejoyc'd to see the pillag'd Oar,
Our Tongue inrich'd, which was so poor before.
Fear not, Learn'd Poet, our impartial blame,
Such Thefts as these add Lustre to thy Name.
Whether thy labour'd Comedies betray
The Sweat of _Terence_, in thy Glorious way,
Or _Catliine_ plots better in thy Play.
Whether his Crimes more excellently shine,
Whether we hear the Consul's Voice Divine,