And doubt which merits most, _Rome's Cicero_, or Thine.
All yield, consenting to sustain the Yoke,
And learn the Language which the Victor spoke.
So _Macedon's Imperial Hero_ threw
His wings abroad, and conquer'd as he flew.
Great _Johnson's_ Deeds stand Parallel with His,
Were _Noble Thefts, Successful Pyracies_.

Souls of a Heroe's, or a Poet's Frame
Are fill'd with larger particles of flame.
Scorning confinement, for more Land they groan,
And stretch beyond the Limits of their Own.

[_Fletcher_ and _Beaument_]

_Fletcher_, whose Wit, like some luxuriant Vine,
Profusely wanton'd in each golden Line.
Who, prodigal of Sense, by _Beaumont's_ care,
Was prun'd so wisely, and became so fair.
Could from his copious Brain new Humours bring,
A _bragging Bessus_, or _inconstant King_.
Could Laughter thence, here melting pity raise
In his _Amyntors_, and _Aspasia's_.
But _Rome_ and _Athens_ must the Plots produce
With _France_, the Handmaid of the _English_ Muse

[_Shakespear_.]

Ev'n _Shakespear_ sweated in his narrow Isle,
And Subject _Italy_ obey'd his Stile.
_Boccace_ and _Cinthio_ must a tribute pay,
T'inrich his Scenes, and furnish out a Play.
Tho' Art ne're taught him how to write by Rules,
Or borrow Learning from _Athenian_ Schools:
Yet He, with _Plautus_, could instruct and please,
And what requir'd long toil, perform with ease.
By inborn strength so _Theseus_ bent the Pine,
Which cost _the Robber_ many Years Design[2].

[2] _See Plutarch's Life of Theseus_.

Tho' sometimes rude, unpolish'd and undrest
His Sentence flows, more careless than the rest.
Yet, when his Muse, complying with his will,
Deigns with informing heat his Breast to fill,
Then hear him thunder in the Pompous strain
Of _AEschylus_, or sooth in _Ovid's_ vein.
I feel a Pity working in my Eyes,
When _Desdemona_ by _Othello_ dyes.
When I view _Brutus_ in his Dress appear;
I know not how to call him too severe.
His _rigid Vertue_ there attories for all,
And makes a Sacrifice of _Caesar's_ Fall.

[_Cowley_.]

Nature work'd Wonders then; when _Shakespear_ dy'd
Her _Cowley_ rose, drest in her gaudy Pride.
So from great Ruins a new Life she calls,
And Builds an _Ovid[3]_ when a _Tully_ Falls.

[3] _Ovid_ was born the same year in which _Cicero_ dy'd.

With what Delight he tunes his Silver-Strings,
And _David's_ Toils in _Dav