neither they nor I can think Mr Collier so formidable an enemy that we should shun him.  He has lost ground at the latter end of the day, by pursuing his point too far, like the Prince of Conde at the battle of Senneffe:  from immoral plays, to no plays; ab abusu ad usum non valet consequentia.  But being a party, I am not to erect myself into a judge.  As for the rest of those who have written against me, they are such scoundrels, that they deserve not the least notice to be taken of them.  Blackmore and Milbourn are only distinguished from the crowd, by being remembered to their infamy.

 —­Demetri, teque Tigelli
  Discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras.

* * * * *

TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF ORMOND,[71]

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM OF PALAMON AND ARCITE.

  MADAM,

  The bard who first adorn’d our native tongue,
  Tuned to his British lyre this ancient song: 
  Which Homer might without a blush rehearse,
  And leaves a doubtful palm in Virgil’s verse: 
  He match’d their beauties, where they most excel;
  Of love sung better, and of arms as well.

    Vouchsafe, illustrious Ormond! to behold
  What power the charms of beauty had of old;
  Nor wonder if such deeds of arms were done,
  Inspired by two fair eyes that sparkled like your own. 10

    If Chaucer by the best idea wrought,
  And poets can divine each other’s thought,
  The fairest nymph before his eyes he set;
  And then the fairest was Plantagenet;
  Who three contending princes made her prize,
  And ruled the rival nations with her eyes: 
  Who left immortal trophies of her fame,
  And to the noblest order gave the name.

    Like her, of equal kindred to the throne,
  You keep her conquests, and extend your own:  20
  As when the stars in their ethereal race,
  At length have roll’d around the liquid space,
  At certain periods they resume their place;
  From the same point of heaven their course advance,
  And move in measures of their former dance;
  Thus, after length of ages, she returns,
  Restored in you, and the same place adorns;
  Or you perform her office in the sphere,
  Born of her blood, and make a new Platonic year. 
  O true Plantagenet!  O race divine! 30
  (For beauty still is fatal to the line)
  Had Chaucer lived that angel-face to view,
  Sure he had drawn his Emily from you;
  Or had you lived to judge the doubtful right,
  Your noble Palamon had been the knight;
  And conquering Theseus from his side had sent
  Your generous lord, to guide the Theban government. 
  Time shall accomplish that; and I shall see
  A Palamon in him, in you an Emily. 
  Already have the Fates your path prepared,