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For as in rows of richest Pearl there lies
Many a Blemish that escapes our Eyes,
The least of which Defects is plainly shewn
In some small Ring, and brings the value down:
So Songs should be to just Perfection wrought;
Yet where can we see one without a fault;
Exact Propriety of Words and Thought?
Expression easie, and the Fancy high,
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly;
No words transpos'd, but in such order all,
As, tho' hard wrought, may seem by chance to fall;
Here, as in all things else, is most unfit
Bare Ribaldry, that poor Pretence to Wit;
Such nauseous Songs by a late Author made,
Call an unwilling Censure on his Shade.
Not that warm Thoughts of the transporting Joy,
Can shock the chastest or the nicest cloy;
But obscene Words, too gross to move Desire,
Like Heaps of Fewel do but choak the Fire.
On other Themes he well deserves our Praise,
Who palls that Appetite he meant to raise.
Next, Elegy, of sweet but solemn Voice,Elegy.
And of a Subject grave exacts the Choice,
The Praise of Beauty, Valor, Wit contains,
And there too oft despairing Love complains;
In vain alas, for who by Wit is moved,
That Phœnix-she deserves to be beloved;
