In strains lamenting his neglected Love.
Th' attentive Forest did his Grief partake,
And Sympathizing Oaks their knotted Branches shake.
Each Nymph, tho' Coy, to Pity would incline;
And every stubborn Heart was mov'd, but Thine.
Henceforth be Thou to future Ages known;
Like _Niobe_, a Monument of Stone.

Here could I dwell, like Bees on Flowry Dew,
And _Waller's_ praise Eternally pursue,
Could I, like Him, in Harmony excel,
So sweetly strike the Lute, and Sing so Well.

But now the forward Muse converts her Eye
To see where _Denham_, and _Roscommon_ fly,
Cautiously daring, and correctly High.
Both chief in Honour, and in Learning's Grace,
Of Ancient Spirit, and of Ancient Race.
Who, when withdrawn from Business, and Affairs,
Their Minds unloaded of tormenting Cares,
With soothing Verse deceiv'd the sliding Time,
And, unrewarded, Sung in Noble Rhyme.
Not like those Venal Bards, who Write for Pence,
Above the Vulgar were their Names and Sense,
The _Critick_ judges what the _Muse_ indites,
And Rules for _Dryden_, like a _Dryden_, Writes.
'Tis true their Lamps were of the smallest Size,
But like the _Stoicks_[4], of prodigious Price.
_Roscommon's_ Rules shall o'er our Isle be Read,
Nor Dye, till Poetry itself be Dead.