But most by  judge a Poet's Song,
And  or  with such, is  or ;
In the bright  tho' thousand  conspire,
Her  is all these tuneful Fools admire;
Who haunt  but to please their Ear,
Not mend their Minds; as some to  repair,
Not for the  but the  there.
These  alone require,
Tho' oft the Ear the  tire;
While  their feeble Aid  join;
And ten low Words oft creep in one dull Line;
While they ring round the same  Chimes,
With sure  of  Rhymes.
Where-e'er you find
In the next Line, it ;
If Chrystal Streams
The Reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with
Then, at the  and  Couplet fraught
With some  Thing they call a
A  ends the Song,
That like a wounded Snake, drags its slow Length along.
Leave such to tune their own dull Rhimes, and know
What's  or ;
And praise the  of a Line,
Where  Strength, and  Sweetness join.
'Tis not enough no Harshness gives Offence,
The  must seem an  to the
is the Strain when  gently blows,
And the  in  flows;
But when loud Surges lash the sounding Shore,
The  shou'd like the  roar.
When  strives, some Rock's vast Weight to throw,
The Line too  and the Words move ;
Not so, when swift  scours the Plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending Corn, and skims along the Main.
Hear how various Lays surprize,
And bid Alternate Passions fall and rise!
While, at each Change, the Son of
Now burns with Glory, and then melts with Love;
Now his fierce Eyes with sparkling Fury glow,
Now Sighs steal out, and :
and  like Turns of Nature found,
And the World's Victor stood subdu'd by !
all our Hearts allow;
And what  was, is  now.