es,
And Rules for _Dryden_, like a _Dryden_, Writes.
'Tis true their Lamps were of the smallest Size,
But like the _Stoicks_[4], of prodigious Price.
_Roscommon's_ Rules shall o'er our Isle be Read,
Nor Dye, till Poetry itself be Dead.
Fam'd _Cooper's Hill_ shall, like _Parnassus_, stand,
And _Denham_ reign, the _Phaebus_ of the Land.

[4] _Epictetus._

Among these sacred and immortal Names, [_Oldham_.]
A Youth glares out, and his just Honour claims;
See circling Flames, in stead of Laurel, play
Around his Head, and Sun the brighten'd Way.
But misty Clouds of unexpected Night,
Cast their black Mantle o'er th' immoderate Light.
Here, pious Muse, lament a While; 'tis just
We pay some Tribute to his sacred Dust.
O'er his fresh Marble strow the fading Rose
And Lilly, for his Youth resembled those.
The brooding Sun took care to dress him Gay,
In all the Trappings of the flowry _May_.
He set him out unsufferably bright,
And sow'd in every part his beamy Light.
Th' unfinish'd Poet budded forth too soon,
For what the Morning warm'd; was scorch'd at Noon.

His careless Lines plain Nature's Rules obey,
Like _Satyrs_ Rough, but not Deform'd as they.
His Sense undrest, like _Adam_, free from Blame,
Without his Cloathing, and without his Shame,
True Wit requires no Ornaments of skill,
A Beauty naked, is a Beauty still.

Warm'd with just Rage he lash'd the _Romish_ Crimes,
In rugged _Satyr_ and ill-sounding Rhymes.
All _Italy_ felt his imbitter'd Tongue,
And trembled less when sharp _Lucilius_ Stung.
Here let us pass in Silence, nor accuse
Th' extravagance of his Unhallow'd Muse.
In _Jordan's_ stream she wash'd the tainted Sore,
And rose more Beauteous than She was before.

[_Lee._]

Then Fancy curb'd began to Cool her Rage,
And Sparks of Judgment glimmer'd in his Page,
When the wild Fury did his Breast inspire,
She rav'd, and set the Little World on Fire.
Thus _Lee_ by Reason strove not to controul
That powerful heat which o'er-inform'd his Soul.
He took his swing, and Nature's bounds surpast,
Stretch'd her, and bent her, till she broke at last.
I scorn to Flatter, or the Dead defame;
But who will call a Blaze a Lambent Flame?

[_Otway._ and _Dryden._]

Terrour and Pity are allow'd to be,
The moving parts of Tragic Poetry.
If Pity sooths us, _Otway_ claims our Praise;
If Terrour strikes, then _Lee_