[Sidenote:  Measure.] Of CHAUCER’S Verse we scarce the Measures know, So rough the Lines, and so unequal flow; Whether by Injury of Time defac’d, Or careless at the first, and writ in haste; Or coursly, like old Ennius, he design’d 450 What After-days have polish’d and refin’d.  SPENCER more smooth and neat, and none than He Could better skill of English Quantity; Tho by his Stanza cramp’d, his Rhimes less chast, And antique Words affected all disgrac’d; Yet vast his Genius, noble were his Thoughts, Whence equal Readers wink at lesser Faults.  From France their Alexandrins we receive Which more of Liberty and Compass give; Hence by our dull Translators were they us’d, 460 Nor CHAPMAN nor old STERNHOLD these refus’d; They borrow from Hexameters their Feet, Which with Asclepiads and Iambicks meet; Yet in the midst we still a Weakness see, Their Music gives us no Variety.  More num’rous the Pentameter and strong, Which to our Saxon Fathers did belong.  In this their antient Edda[1] seems to write, Mysterious Rhimes, and horrid to the sight:  Their Runic Staves in this on Rocks engrav’d, 470 Which long th’ Assaults of Time it self have brav’d.  In this our antient British Bards delight; } And, if I measure his rough Numbers right, } In this old Taliessin us’d to Write[2]. } This still Possession keeps, few else we read, And Right as well as Fact may justly plead; Altho the French Intruders oft pursue Their baffled Title, and their Claim renew; Too oft Impressions on our Armies make, Cut off our Straglers and our Out-Guards take, 480 Which lazily our Authors now admit, And call th’ Excursions of Luxuriant Wit; With Badger-Feet the two-top’d Mount we climb, And stalk from Peak to Peak on Stilts of Rime.  Sweet WALLER’S Dimeter we most approve For cheerful Songs and moving Tales of Love, Which for Heroic Subjects wants of Strength, Too short, as Alexandrins err in Length.  Our Ear’s the Judge of Cadence; nicely weigh What Consonants; rebel, and what obey; 490 What Vowels mixt compose a pleasing Sound, And what the tender Organs grate and wound.  Nor at thy Reader’s Mercy chuse to lie, Nor let his Judgment want of thine supply:  So easie let thy Verse so smoothly fall, They must be read aright if read at all. [Sidenote:  Numbers.] Nor equal Numbers will for all suffice,