Beat the vext Anvil with continual chime,
  And labour’d hard to hammer statutable Rhyme)
  Create a BRITISH PRINCE; as hard a task,
  As would a Cowley or a Milton ask,
  To build a Poem of the vastest price,
  A DAVIDEIS, or LOST PARADISE. 
  So tho’ a Beauty of Imperial Mien
  May labour with a Heroe, or a Queen,
  The Dowdie’s Offspring, of the freckled strain,
  Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain.

    Such to the Rabble may appear inspir’d,
  By Coxcombs envy’d, and by Fools admir’d. 
  I pity Madmen who attempt to fly,
  And raise their Airy Babel to the Sky. 
  Who, arm’d with Gabble, to create a Name,
  Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame,
  Not so the Seat of Phoebus role, which lay
  In Ruins buried, and a long Decay. 
  To Britany the Temple was convey’d,
  By Natures utmost force, and more than Human Aid. 
  Built from the Basis by a noble Few,
  The stately Fabrick in perfection view. 
  While Nature gazes on the polish’d piece,
  The Work of many rowling Centuries.

   For Joyn’d with Art She labour’d long to raise
  An English Poet, meriting the Bays. 
  How vain a Toil!  Since Authors first were known
  For Greek and Latin Tongues, but scorn’d their Own.

   As Moors of old, near Guinea’s precious Shore,
  For glittering Brass exchang’d their shining Oar. 
  Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd,
  Nor could we view the Goddess thro’ the Cloud.

[Chaucer and Spencer]

    Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay,
  Till Chaucer rose, and pointed out the Day. 
  A joking Bard, whose antiquated Muse
  In mouldy words could Solid sense produce. 
  Our English Ennius He, who claim’d his part
  In wealthy Nature, tho’ unskil’d in Art. 
  The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghil shines,
  And golden fragments glitter in his Lines. 
  Which Spencer gather’d, for his Learning known,
  And by successful gleanings made his Own. 
  So careful Bees, on a fair Summer’s Day,
  Hum o’er the Flowers, and suck the sweets away. 
  O had thy Poet, Britany, rely’d
  On native Strength, and Foreign Aid deny’d! 
  Had not wild Fairies blasted his Design,
  Maeanides and Virgil had been Thine! 
  Their Finish’d Poems He exactly view’d,
  But Chaucer’s steps religiously pursu’d.

[Ben.  Johnson.]

    He cull’d, and pick’d, and thought it greater praise
  T’adore his Master, than improve his Phrase;
  ’Twas counted Sin to deviate from his Page;
  So secred was th’ Authority of Age! 
  The Coyn must sure for currant Sterling pass,
  Stamp’d with old Chaucer’s Venerable Face. 
  But Johnson found it of a gross