When Spenser reign'd sole Prince of Poets here,
As by his Fairy Queen doth well appear,
There was not one so blind, so bold a bard,
So ignorantly proud or foolish-hard
To encounter his sweet Muse, for Phœbus vow'd
A sharp revenge on him should be so proud;
And when my Shirley from the Albion shore
Comes laden with the Muses, all their store
Transfers to Dublin, full Parnassus brings,
And all the riches of Castalian springs,
Shall we not welcome him with our just votes?
And shall we do't with harsh and envious notes?
No, no, Thalia! Envy shall not sit
So high above our judgment, and our wit,
As not to give just merit his due praise,
And crown thy Poet with deserved bays.
Shirley, stand forth, and put thy laurel on,
Phœbus' next heir, now Ben is dead and gone,
Truly legitimate; Ireland is so just
To say, you rise the Phœnix of his dust;
And since thy Royal M ASTER won so much
On each Judicious, and hath stood the touch,
Tis fit he should be more than private, when
He wears two crowns, their votes, and thy smooth pen.