LINES ON SETTLE'S EMPRESS OF MOROCCO

Great boy, thy tragedy and sculptures done
From press and plates in fleets do homeward come,
And in ridiculous and humble pride
Their course in ballet-singers' baskets guide,
Whose greazy twigs do all new beauties take
From the gay shews thy dainty sculptures make.
Thy lines a mess of rhyming nonsense yield,
A senseless tale, with fluttering fustian fill'd.
No grain of sense does in one line appear;
Thy words big bulks of boist'rous bombast bear;
With noise they move, and from players' mouths rebound,
When their tongues dance to thy words' empty sound.
By thee inspir'd, thy rumbling verses roll,
As if that rhyme and bombast lent a soul;
And with that soul they seem taught duty too.
To huffing words does humble nonsense bow,
As if it would thy worthless worth enhance,
To the lowest rank of fops thy praise advance,
To whom by instinct all thy stuff is dear;
Their loud claps echo to the theater.
From breaths of fools thy commendation spreads;
Fame sings thy praise with mouths of logger-heads;
With noise and laughing each thy fustian greets;
'T is clapp'd by choirs of empty-headed cits,
Who have their tribute sent and homage given,
As men in whispers send loud noise to heaven.