I.

When Sorrow wont her meagre hand display,
And all the train of Transport, frighted, fly,
To thy sweet lines, I turn a languid eye;
Soon, soon, illum'd with H UMOUR'S sparkling ray:
For at thy magic word, dull doubts, and brooding fears decay.

II.

Dazzled with thy Meridian glare, I turn
To the meek Parson, and his pupil true,
Or, deeply with thy fond A MELIA mourn,
And all the woes of private Virtue view.

III.

Thine was the pen, in Judgment's fount, embu'd,
Thine was the pen, to touch each master-spring,
Pale Vice, abash'd, not daring to be good;
And worth compleat, thy serious Muse cou'd sing.

IV.

N ATURE herself, sits smiling o'er thy page,
Compassion weeps, and Laughter holds his side;
L IFE treads, unmask'd, thy full historic Stage,
Whilst R ABELAIS ' wit, C ERVANTES comic pride,
And L IVY'S fluent stile, thy matchless palm divide.