On THE ROYAL MASTER; To His Friend The Author
Smooth and unsullied lines, keep on your way,
From envy's jostle free, a clear ey'd day
Smiles on your triumph; only thus to blame,
Too lavish is your sacrifice to fame.
Less of such perfume, to succeeding age,
The dead would sweeten, and embalm the stage:
Here is a pile of incense, every line
Heaps on fresh nard, your Muse cannot decline
To intermissions; some leave hills, by turns
Flame, and expire; his Ætna ever burns.
From envy's jostle free, a clear ey'd day
Smiles on your triumph; only thus to blame,
Too lavish is your sacrifice to fame.
Less of such perfume, to succeeding age,
The dead would sweeten, and embalm the stage:
Here is a pile of incense, every line
Heaps on fresh nard, your Muse cannot decline
To intermissions; some leave hills, by turns
Flame, and expire; his Ætna ever burns.
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