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To Mr. Dryden, on his Translation of
VIRGIL.
WE read, how Dreams and Visions heretofore,
The Prophet, and the Poet cou'd inspire;
And make 'em in unusual Rapture soar,
With Rage Divine, and with Poetick Fire.
II.
But for a while vouchsafe to bear the Light;
To grace my Numbers, and that Muse to aid,
Who sings the Poet, that has done him right.
III.
To lye at ev'ry dull Translator's Will;
Long, long his Muse has groan'd beneath the weight
Of mangling Ogleby's presumptuous Quill.
IV.
The Father now is righted by the Son:
And while his Muse endeavours to disclose
That Poet's Beauties, she declares her own.
V.
Each Thought, betrays such a Majestick Touch;
He cou'd not, had he finish'd his Design,
Have wisht it better, or have done so much.
VI.
And disentangl'd from the War of Wit;
You, who secure might others danger see,
And safe from all malicious Censure sit: