Hum o'er the Flowers, and suck the sweets away.
O had thy Poet, _Britany_, rely'd
On native Strength, and Foreign Aid deny'd!
Had not wild Fairies blasted his Design,
_Mæanides_ and _Virgil_ had been Thine!
Their Finish'd Poems He exactly view'd,
But _Chaucer's_ steps _religiously_ pursu'd.

[_Ben. Johnson_.]

He cull'd, and pick'd, and thought it greater praise
T'adore his Master, than improve his Phrase;
'Twas counted Sin to deviate from his Page;
So secred was th' Authority of Age!
The Coyn must sure for _currant Sterling_ pass,
Stamp'd with old _Chaucer's Venerable Face_.
But _Johnson_ found it of a gross _Alloy_,
Melted it down, and slung the Dross away
He dug pure Silver from a _Roman Mine_,
And prest his Sacred Image on the Coyn.
We all rejoyc'd to see the pillag'd Oar,
Our Tongue inrich'd, which was so poor before.
Fear not, Learn'd Poet, our impartial blame,
Such Thefts as these add Lustre to thy Name.
Whether thy labour'd Comedies betray
The Sweat of _Terence_, in thy Glorious way,
Or _Catliine_ plots better in thy Play.
Whether his Crimes more excellently shine,
Whether we hear the Consul's Voice Divine,
And doubt which merits most, _Rome's Cicero_, or Thine.