sprightliness are wanting; his "Hymn to Venus," from Homer, is
perhaps the best. His lines are weakened with expletives, and his
rhymes are frequently imperfect. His petty poems are seldom worth
the cost of criticism; sometimes the thoughts are false and
sometimes common. In his verses on Lady Gethin, the latter part is
in imitation of Dryden's ode on Mrs. Killigrew; and "Doris," that
has been so lavishly flattered by Steele, has indeed some lively
stanzas, but the expression might be mended, and the most striking
part of the character had been already shown in "Love for Love."
His "Art of Pleasing" is founded on a vulgar, but perhaps
impracticable principle, and the staleness of the sense is not
concealed by any novelty of illustration or elegance of diction.
This tissue of poetry, from which he seems to have hoped a lasting
name, is totally neglected, and known only as it is appended to his
plays.

While comedy or while tragedy is regarded, his plays are likely to
be read; but, except what relates to the stage, I know not that he
has ever written a stanza that is sung, or a couplet that is quoted.
The general character of his "Miscellanies" is that they show little
wit and little virtue. Yet to him it must be confessed that we are
indebted for the connection of a national error, and for the cure of
our Pindaric madness. He first taught the English writers that
Pindar's odes were regular; and though certainly he had not the lire
requisite for the higher species of lyric poetry, he has shown us
that enthusiasm has its rules, and that in mere confusion there is
neither grace nor greatness.