Tho' the haranguing God survey'd the War,
That Day the Muses Sons were not his Care.
Two Friends, Adepts, the Trismegists by Name,
Alike their Features, and alike their Flame.
As simpling ne'er fair Tweed each sung by turn,
The list'ning River wou'd neglect his Urn.
Those Lives they fail'd to rescue by their Skill,
Their [1]Muse cou'd make immortal with her Quill.
But learn'd Enquiries after Nature's State
Dissolv'd the League and kindled a Debate.
The One, for lofty Labours fruitful known,
Fill'd Magazines with Volumes of his own.
At his once-favour'd Friend a Tome he threw
That from its Birth had slept unseen 'till now.
Stunn'd with the Blow the batter'd Bard retir'd,
Sunk down, and in a Simile expir'd.
And now the Cohorts shake, the Legions ply,
The yielding Flanks confess the Victory.
Stentor undaunted still, with noble Rage
Sprung thro' the Battel, Querpo to engage.
Fierce was the Onset, the Dispute was great,
Both cou'd not vanquish, Neither would retreat;
Each Combatant his Adversary mauls.
With batter'd Bed-pans, and stav'd Urinals.
On Stentor's Crest the useful Chrystal breaks,
And Tears of Amber gutter'd down his Cheeks.
But whilst the Champion, as late Rumours tell,
Design'd a sure decisive Stroke, he fell:
And as the Victor hov'ring o'er him stood,
With Arms extended, thus the Suppliant su'd.
- ↑ See Tass
