Or Falstaff, in his sympathetic scroll,
Forth to the Wives of Windsor pours his soul.
Again, forsaking mirth's fantastic rites,
The Muse to follow, through her nobler flights,
Where Milton paints angelic hosts in arms,
And Heaven's wide champaign rings with dire alarms,
Till 'vengeful justice wings its dreadful way,
And hurls the apostate from the face of day.
Immortal Bards! high o'er oblivion's shroud
Their names shall live, pre-eminent and proud,
Who snatch'd the keys of mystery from time,
This world too little for their Muse sublime!

With Thomson, now, o'er sylvan scenes we stray,
Or seek the lone church-yard, with pensive Gray:
On Pope's refin'd, or Dryden's lofty strains,
Dwell, while their fire the lightest heart enchains.
Through these and all our Bards to whom belong
The pow'rs transcendent of immortal song,
How difficult to steer t'avoid the cant
Of polish'd phrase, and nerve-alarming rant;
Each period with true elegance to round,
And give the Poet's meaning in the sound.
But, wherefore should the Muse employ her verse,
The peril of our labors to rehearse?
Oft has your kind, your generous applause,
E're now, convinc'd us, you approve our cause:
Conscious it will again our task attend,
The Critic stern, we ask not to commend,
Who like inclement Winter's hostile frown