In this thy Muses Resurrection,
Whose scattered parts, from thy owne Race, more wounds
Hath suffer'd, then_ Acteon _from his hounds;
Which first their Braines, and then their Bellies fed,
And from their excrements new Poets bred.
But now thy Muse inraged from her urne
Like Ghosts of Murdred bodyes doth returne
To accuse the Murderers, to right the Stage,
And undeceive the long abused Age,
Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy Wit
Gives not more Gold then they give drosse to it:
Who not content like fellons to purloyne,
Adde Treason to it, and debase thy Coyne.
But whither am I strayd? I need not raise
Trophies to thee from other Mens dispraise;
Nor is thy fame on lesser Ruines built,
Nor needs thy juster title the foule guilt
Of Easterne Kings, who to secure their Raigne,
Must have their Brothers, Sonnes, and Kindred slaine.
Then was wits Empire at the fatall height,
When labouring and sinking with its weight,
From thence a thousand lesser Poets sprong
Like petty Princes from the fall of_ Rome.
When_ JOHNSON, SHAKESPEARE, _and thy selfe did sit,
And sway'd in the Triumvirate of wit--
Yet what from_ JOHNSONS _oyle and sweat did flow,
Or what more easie nature did bestow
On_ SHAKESPEARES _gentler Muse, in thee full growne
Their Graces both appeare, yet so, that none
Can say here Nature ends, and Art begins