Yet nurs'd with skill, what dazling fruits appear!
Ev'n now sagacious Foresight points to show
A little bench of heedless bishops here,
And there a chancellour in embryo,
Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so,
As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er shall dye!
Tho' now he crawl along the ground so low,
Nor weeting how the Muse shou'd soar on high,
Wisheth, poor starving elf! his paper-kite may fly.