[3] _Ovid_ was born the same year in which _Cicero_ dy'd.

With what Delight he tunes his Silver-Strings,
And _David's_ Toils in _David's_ numbers Sings?
Hark! how he Murmurs to the Fields and Groves,
His rural Pleasures, and his various Loves,
Yet every Line so Innocent and Clear,
_Hermits_ may read them to a Virgin's Ear.
Unstoln _Promethean_ Fire informs his Song,
Rich is his Fancy, his Invention strong.
His Wit, unfathom'd, has a fresh Supply,
Is always flowing-out, but never Dry.

Sure the profuseness of a boundless Thought,
Unjustly is imputed for a Fault.
A Spirit, that is unconfin'd and free,
Should hurry forward, like the Wind or Sea.
Which laughs at Laws and Shackles, when a Vain
Presuming _Xerxes_ shall pretend to Reign,
And on the flitting Air impose his pond'rous Chain.

Hail _English_ Swan? for You alone could dare
With well-pois'd Pinions tempt th' unbounded Air:
And to your Lute _Pindaric_ Numbers call,
Nor fear the Danger of a _threatned Fall_.
O had You liv'd to _Waller's_ Reverend Age,
Better'd your Measures, and reform'd your Page!
Then _Britain's_ Isle might raise her Trophies high,
And _Solid Rome_, or _Witty Greece_ outvy.
The _Rhine_, the _Tyber_, and _Parisian Sein_,