’Twas the unjudging Rout’s mistake, not Thine: 
  Thus thy faire SHEPHEARDESSE, which the bold Heape
  (False to Themselves and Thee) did prize so cheap,
  Was found (when understood) fit to be Crown’d,
  At wont ’twas worth two hundred thousand pound.
    Some blast thy Works lest we should track their Walke
  Where they steale all those few good things they talke;
  Wit-Burglary must chide those it feeds on,
  For Plundered folkes ought to be rail’d upon;
  But (as stoln goods goe off at halfe their worth)
  Thy strong Sence pall’s when they purloine it forth. 
  When did’st Thou borrow? wkere’s the man e’re read
  Ought begged by Thee from those Alive or Dead? 
  Or from dry Goddesses, as some who when
  They stuffe their page with Godds, write worse then Men. 
  Thou was’t thine owne Muse, and hadst such vast odds
  Thou out-writ’st him whose verse made all those Godds: 
  Surpassing those our Dwarfish Age up reares,
  As much as Greeks or Latines thee in yeares: 
  Thy Ocean Fancy knew nor Bankes nor Damms,
  We ebbe downe dry to pebble-Anagrams;
  Dead and insipid, all despairing sit
  Lost to behold this great Relapse of Wit: 
  What strength remaines, is like that (wilde and fierce)
  Till Johnson made good Poets and right Verse. 
    Such boyst’rous Trifles Thy Muse would not brooke,
  Save when she’d show how scurvily they looke;
  No savage Metaphors (things rudely Great)
  Thou dost display, not butcher a Conceit;
  Thy Nerves have Beauty, which Invades and Charms;
  Lookes like a Princesse harness’d in bright Armes. 
    Nor art Thou Loud and Cloudy; those that do
  Thunder so much, do’t without Lightning too;
  Tearing themselves, and almost split their braine
  To render harsh what thou speak’st free and cleane;
  Such gloomy Sense may pass for High and Proud,
  But true-born Wit still flies above the Cloud;
  Thou knewst ’twas Impotence what they call Height;
  Who blusters strong i’th Darke, but creeps i’th Light. 
    And as thy thoughts were cleare, so, Innocent;
  Thy Phancy gave no unswept Language vent;
  Slaunderst not Lawes, prophan’st no holy Page,
  (As if thy Fathers Crosier aw’d the Stage;)
  High Crimes were still arraign’d, though they made shift
  To prosper out foure Acts, were plagu’d i’th Fift: 
  All’s safe, and wise; no stiffe-affected Scene,
  Nor swoln, nor flat, a True Full Naturall veyne;
  Thy Sence (like well-drest Ladies) cloath’d as skinn’d,
  Not all unlac’d, nor City-startcht and pinn’d. 
  Thou hadst no Sloath, no Rage, no sullen Fit,
  But Strength and Mirth, FLETCHER’S