author:John Dryden

“ From Earthly dross, fills the great Poet's Mind.
Witness these mighty and immortal Lines,
Through each of which th' informing Genius shines.
Scarce a diviner Flame inspir'd the King,
Of whom thy Muse does so sublimely sing. ”

“ Where, tho the Nine their beauteous stroaks repeat,
And the turn'd Lines on golden Anvils beat,
It looks as if they strook 'em at a heat.
So all Serenely Great, so Just, refin'd,
Like Angels love to Humane Seed enclin'd,
It starts a Giant, and exalts the Kind.
'Tis Spirit seen, whose fiery Attoms roul,
So brightly fierce, each Syllable's a Soul:
'Tis minuture of Man, but he's all heart;
'Tis what the World woud be, but wants the Art:
To whom ev'n the Phanaticks Altars raise,
Bow in their own despight, and grin your praise. ”

“ And, with his Poem, a new Speech presents.
Hail then thou matchless Bard, thou great Unknown,
That give your Countrey Fame, yet shun your own!
In vain———for ev'ry where your Praise you find,
And not to meet it, you must shun Mankind. ”