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Verse will seem Prose, yet often upon him look,
And you will hardly need another Book.
Had [1]Bossu never writ, the World had still,
Like Indians, view'd this wondrous piece of Skill,
As something of Divine the Work admired,
Not hoped to be Instructed, but Inspired;
But he disclosing sacred Mysteries,
Has shown where all the mighty Magick lies,
Describ'd the Seeds, and in what order sown,
That have to such a vast proportion grown;
Sure from some Angel he the Secret knew,
Who through this Labyrinth has given the Clue!
But what alas, avails it poor Mankind
To see this promised Land, yet stay behind?
The way is shewn, but who has strength to go?
Who can all Sciences exactly know?
Whose Fancy flies beyond weak Reason's Sight,
And yet has Judgment to direct it right?
Whose just Discernment, Virgil like, is such,
Never to say too little, or too much?
Let such a man begin without delay,
But he must do much more than I can say,
Must above Cowley, nay and Milton too prevail,
Succeed where great Torquato, and our greater Spencer fail.
FINIS.
- ↑ A late author,
