Classic Poem

Well, Sir, 'tis granted, I said D(ryden's) Rhimes,
Were stol'n, unequal, nay dull many times;
What foolish Patron, is there found of his,
So blindly partial, to deny me this?
But that his Plays, embroider'd up and down
With Wit and Learning, justly pleas'd the Town
In the same Paper, I as freely own.
Yet having this allow'd, the heavy Mass,
That stuffs up his loose Columns, must not pass:
For by that Rule, I might as well admit,
C(rown's) tedious Sense, for Poetry and Wit.
"Tis therefore not enough, when your false Sense
Hits the false Judgement of an Audience
Of clapping Fools, assembled in vast crowd,
Till the throng'd Play-House crack with the dull load;
Though ev'n that Talent merits in some sort,
That can divert the City and the Court.
Which blund'ring S(ettle), never could attain,
And puzling O(tway), labours at in vain.
But within due proportions circumscribe
What e'er you write, that with a flowing Tide,
The Style may rise, yet in its rise forbear,
With useless Words, t'oppress the Weary'd Ear.
Here be your Language lofty, there more light,
Your Rhetorick with your' Poetry unite:
For Elegance sake, sometimes allay the Force
Of Epithets, 'twill soften the discourse;
A jest in scorn points out, and hits the thing
More home, than the Morosest Satires sting.
Shake-spear and Johnson did herein excell,
And might in this be imitated well;
Whom refin'd E(theredge), copies not at all,
But is himself, a sheer Original.
Nor that slow Drudge, in swift Pindarick strains,
F(latman), who C(owley) imitates with pains,
And rides a jaded Muse, whipt with loose Rains.
When L(ee), makes temp'rate Scipio, fret and rave,
And Hannibal, a whining Amorous Slave,
I laugh, and wish the hot-brained Fustian-Fool,
In B(usby's) hands, to be well lasht at School.
Of all our Modern Wits none seems to me,
Once to have toucht upon true Comedy,
But hasty S(hadwell), and slow Wicherley.
S(hadwell's) unfinish'd works do yet impart,
Great proofs of force of Nature, none of Art;
With just bold strokes he dashes here and there,
Shewing great Mastery with little Care;
And scorns to varnish his good touches o'er,
To make the Fools and Women praise him more.
But Wicherley, earns hard what e'er he gains,
He wants no judgement, and he spares no pains;
He frequently excells, and at the least,
Makes fewer faults than any of the best.
Waller, by Nature, for the Bays design'd,
With Force and Fire, and fancy unconfin'd,
In Panegyricks does excell Mankind.
He best can turn, enforce, and soften things,
To praise great Conquerors, or to flatter Kings.
For pointed Satyrs I would B(uckhurst) choose,
The best good Man, with the worst natur'd Muse.
For Songs and Verses, mannerly, obscene,
That can stir Nature up by spring unseen,
And without forcing blushes please the Queen,
S(edley) has that prevailing, gentle Art,
That can with a resistless Charm impart,
The loosest Wishes to the chastest Heart.
Raise such a Conflict, kindle such a Fire
Betwixt declining Vertue and Desire;
Till the poor vanquish'd Mind dissolves away,
In Dreames all Night, in Sighs and Tears all Day.
D(ryden), in vain try'd this nice way of Wit,
For he to be a tearing Blade thought fit,
To give the Ladies a dry Bawdy bob,
And thus he got the name of Poet Squab.
But to be just, 'twill to his praise be found,
His Excellencies more than faults abound,
Nor dare I from his sacred Temples tear,
That Laurel which he best deserves to wear.
But does not D(ryden) find even Jonson dull?
Fletcher and Beaumont incorrect and full
Of lewd fires as he calls 'em? Shakespeare's stile
Stiff and affected? to his own the while
Allowing all the justness that his Pride
So arrogantly had to them deny'd?
And may not I have leave impartially
To search and censure D(ryden's) works, and try
If these gross faults his choice Pen does commit
Proceed from want of Judgement and of Wit?