In rugged _Satyr_ and ill-sounding Rhymes.
All _Italy_ felt his imbitter'd Tongue,
And trembled less when sharp _Lucilius_ Stung.
Here let us pass in Silence, nor accuse
Th' extravagance of his Unhallow'd Muse.
In _Jordan's_ stream she wash'd the tainted Sore,
And rose more Beauteous than She was before.

[_Lee._]

Then Fancy curb'd began to Cool her Rage,
And Sparks of Judgment glimmer'd in his Page,
When the wild Fury did his Breast inspire,
She rav'd, and set the Little World on Fire.
Thus _Lee_ by Reason strove not to controul
That powerful heat which o'er-inform'd his Soul.
He took his swing, and Nature's bounds surpast,
Stretch'd her, and bent her, till she broke at last.
I scorn to Flatter, or the Dead defame;
But who will call a Blaze a Lambent Flame?

[_Otway._ and _Dryden._]

Terrour and Pity are allow'd to be,
The moving parts of Tragic Poetry.
If Pity sooths us, _Otway_ claims our Praise;
If Terrour strikes, then _Lee_ deserves the Bays.
We grant a Genius shines in _Jaffeir's_ Part,
And _Roman Brutus_ speaks a Master's Art.
But still we often Mourn to see their Phrase