This does superiour excellence betray;
O could I Write in thy Immortal Way!
If Art be Nature's Scholar, and can make
Such vast improvements, Nature must forsake
Her Ancient Style; and in some grand Design
She must her Own Originals decline,
And for the Noblest Copies follow Thine.
Pardon this just transition to thy Praise,
Which Young _Thalia_ sung in Rural Lays.

As Sleep to weary Drovers on the Plain
As a sweet River to a thirsty Swain,
Such _Tityrus's_ charming Number show,
Please like the River, like the River flow.
When his first Years in mighty Order ran,
And cradled Infancy bespoke the Man,
Around his Lips the _Waxen Artists_ hung,
And drop'd ambrosial Dew upon his Tongue.
Then from his Mouth harmonious Numbers broke,
More sweet than Honey from a hollow Oke.
Pleasant as streams which from a Mountain Glide,
Yet lofty as the Top from whence they slide.

Long He possest th' Hereditary Plains,
Admir'd by all the Herdsmen and the Swains.
Till he resign'd his Flock, opprest with cares,
Weaken'd by num'rous Woes, and grey with Years.
Yet still, like _Ætna's_ _Mount_, he kept his Fire,
And look'd like beauteous Roses on a Brier.
He smil'd, like _Phoebus_ in a Stormy Morn,