154 THE POEMS OF ANNE �Then, let my Verse, once more attempt the Skies, �The easily persuaded Poet cries, �Since meaner Works you Men of Taste despise. �The Walls of Troy shall be our loftier Stage, �Our mighty Theme the fierce Achilles Rage. �The Streilgth of Hector, and Ulysses Arts �Shall boast such Language, to adorn their Parts, 20 �As neither Hobbes, nor Chapman cou'd bestow, �Or did from Congreve, or from Dryden flow. �Amidst her Towers, the dedicated Horse �Shall be receiv'd, big with destructive Force; �Till Men shall say, when Flames have brought her �down. " Troy is no more, and Ilium was a Town. �Is this the way to please the Men of Taste, �The Interrupter cries, this old Bombast? �I'm sick of Troy, and in as great a Fright, �When some dull Pedant wou'd her Wars recite, 30 �As was soft Paris, when compell'd to Fight. �To Shades and Springs shall we awhile repair, The Muse demands, and in that milder Air Describe some gentle Swain's unhappy Smart Whose folded Arms still press upon his Heart, And deeper drive the two far enter'd Dart ? Whilst Phillis with a careless pleasure reigns The Joy, the Grief, the Envy of the Plains; Heightens the Beauty of the verdant Woods, And softens all the Murmurs of the Floods. 40 �Oh! stun me not with these insipid Dreams, Th' Eternal Hush, the Lullaby of Streams. Which still, he cries, their even Measures keep, Till both the Writers, and the Readers sleep. ��� �
