He it was who wrote that Jovial Almanack of Montelion; besides several other things in a serious Vein of Poetry.  Nor must we forget his Song made on the Tombs at Westminster; which for a witty drolling Invention, I hold it to be past Compare, being Printed in a Book called The Miseries of Love and Eloquence.

You may reckon among these his Elegy upon our late Soveraign, and his Anniversary to His Majesty; Composed all by Dr. Blow.

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Mr. JOHN OLDHAM.

Mr. John Oldham, the delight of the Muses, and glory of those last Times; a Man utterly unknown to me but only by Works, which none can read but with Wonder and Admiration; So Pithy his Strains, so Sententious his Expressions, so Elegant his Oratory, so Swimming his Language, so Smooth his Lines, in Translating out-doing the Original, and in Invention matchless; whose praise my rude Pen is not able to Comprehend:  Take therefore a small Draught of his Perfections in a Funeral Elegy, made by the Laureat of our Nation, Mr. John Dryden.

  Farewel, too little and too lately known,
  Whom I began to think and call my own;
  For sure our Souls were near ally’d; and thine
  Cast in the same Poetick Mould with mine. 
  One common note on either Lyre did strike,
  And Knaves and Fools we both abhorr’d alike: 
  To the same Goal did both our Studies drive,
  The last set out the soonest did arrive. 
  Thus Nisus fell upon the Slippery place,
  While his young Friend perform’d and won the race. 
  O early ripe! to thy abundant store,
  What could advancing age have added more? 
  It might (what Nature never gives the young)
  Have taught the numbers of thy Native Tongue. 
  But Satyr needs not those, and wit will shine
  Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line,
  A noble error, and but seldom made,
  When Poets are by too much force betray’d. 
  Thy generous Fruits, though gather’d e’re their Prime,
  Still shew’d a quickness; and maturing time;
  But Mellows what we write to the dull sweets of Rhime. 
  Once more, hail and farwel, farwel thou young,
  But all too short Marcellus of our Tongue;
  Thy brows with Ivy, and with Lawrels bound;
  But flat and gloomy Night encompass thee around.

This wittily learned Gentleman was of Edmund-Hall in Oxford, and dyed in the Earl of Kingston’s Family in the prime of his Years; whose life had it been lengthened, might have produced as large a Volume of learned Works, as any this latter Age have brought forth.

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And thus have we given you an Account of all the most Eminent English Poets that have come to our knowledge; although we question not but many and those well deserving have slipped our Pen; which if these our Labours shall come to a Second Impression, as we question nothing to the contrary, we shall endeavour to do them right.  In the mean time we shall give you a short Account of some of the most eminent that are now (or at least thought by us so to be) living at this time, and so conclude, beginning first with