John Dryden

“ Thy Tragick Muse gives smiles, thy Comick sleep.
With whate'er Gall thou sett'st thy self to write,
Thy inoffensive Satyrs never bite.
In thy fellonious Heart, though Venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish Pen, and dies.
Thy Genius calls thee not to purchase Fame,
In keen Iambicks, but mild Anagram:
Leave writing Plays, and chuse for thy Command
Some peaceful Province in Acrostick Land.
There thou may'st Wings display, and Altars raise,
And torture one poor word Ten thousand ways. ”

“ Sir Formal's Oratory will be thine.
Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy Quill,
And does thy Northern Dedications fill.
Nor let false Friends seduce thy Mind to Fame,
By arrogating Johnson's hostile Name.
Let Father Fleckno fire thy Mind with Praise,
And Uncle Ogleby thy Envy raise.
Thou art my Blood, where Johnson has no part;
What share have we in Nature or in Art? ”