of your great due.
As all which yet have writ come short of you.

Again,

In Pictures none hereafter will delight,
You draw more to the Life in black and white;
The Pencil to your Pen must yield the Place,
This draws the Soul, where that draws but the Face.

But having thank'd these noble Lords for their Suffrage, we will proceed
to some other Witnesses of Quality: And first I beg leave to appeal to
my Lord Duke of _Buckinghamshire_, his Translation of _The Temple of
Death_;

Her Chains were Marks of Honour to the Brave,
She made a Prince when e'er she made a Slave.

Again,

By wounding me, she learnt the fatal Art,
And the first Sigh she had, was from my Heart.

My Lord _Hallifax_'s Muse hath been very indulgent to _Monosyllables_,
and no Son of _Apollo_ will dare to dispute his Authority in this
Matter. Speaking of the Death of King _Charles_ the Second, and his
Improvement of Navigation, and Shipping; he says,

To ev'ry Coast, with ready Sails are hurl'd,
Fill us with Wealth, and with our Fame the World.

Again,

Us from our Foes, and from our selves did shield.

Again,

As the stout Oak, when round his Trunk the Vine
Does in soft Wreaths, and amorous Foldings twine.

And again,

In _Charles_, so good a Man and King, we see,
A double Image of the Deity.
Oh! Had he more resembled it! Oh why
Was he not still more like; and cou'd not die?

My Lord _Landsdown_'s Muse, which may claim her Seat in the highest
Point of _Parnassus_, gives us these Instances of her Sentiments in our
Favour;

So own'd by Heaven, less glorious far was he,
Great God of Verse, than I, thus prais'd by thee.

Again on _Mira's_ singing,

The Slave that from her Wit or Beauty flies,
If she but reach him with her Voice, he dies.

In such noble Company, I imagin Mr. _Addison_ will not be ashamed to
appear, thus speaking of Mr. _Cowley_;

His Turns too closely on the Reader press;
He more had pleas'd us, had he pleas'd us less.

And of Mr. _Waller_,

Oh had thy Muse not come an Age too soon.

And of Mr. _Dryden_'s Muse,

Whether in Comick Sounds or Tragick Airs
She forms her Voice, she moves our Smiles or Tears.

And to his Friend Dr. _Sacheverell_,

I've done at length, and now, dear Friend, receive
The last poor Present that my Muse can give.
And so at once, dear Friend and Muse, fare well.