Nor would have _writ like him, like him to write_.
If there's _Hereafter_, and a last _Great Day_,
What _Fire_'s enough to _purge_ his _Stains_ away?
How will he _wish_ each _lewd_ applauded _Line_ }
Which makes _Vice pleasing_, and _Damnation shine_, }
Had been as _dull_ as honest _Quarles_ or _mine_! }
With _sixty Years of Lewdness_ rest content!
It mayn't be yet _too late_, O yet _Repent_! 680
Ev'n _Thee_ our _injur'd Altar_ will receive;
While yet there's _Hopes_ fly to its _Arms_ and live!
So shall for _Thee_ their _Harps_ the _Angels_ string,
And the _Returning Prodigal_ shall sing;
New _Joys_ through all the _Heav'nly Host_ be shown
In _Numbers_ only _sweeter_ than thy _own_.
CONGREVE from _Ireland_ wond'ring we receive, }
Would he the _Town's loose way_ of Writing leave, }
More Worth than all their Forfeit Lands will give: }
_Justness_ of _Thought_, a _Courtly Style_, and clear, 690
And well-wrought _Passions_ in his _Works_ appear:
None knows with _finer Strokes_ our Souls to move,
And as he please we _smile_, or _weep_, or _love_.
When _Dryden_ goes, 'tis he must fill the _Chair_,
_With_ Congreve _only_ Congreve _can compare_.
Yet, tho he _natural_ is as untaught Loves,
His _Style_ as _smooth_ as _Cytherea_'s Doves,
When e'er unbyass'd _Judges_ read him o'er,
He sometimes _nodds_, as _Homer_ did before:
Some Lines his most _Admirers_ scarce would please, 700
Nor _B----_'s Verse alone could _raise Disease_.[7]
For _smooth_ and _well turn'd Lines_ we _T----_ admire,