[Sidenote:  Paraphrase on Psal. 148 O Azure Vaults, &c.] The next in Dignity, if not the same, Is Deathless Dorsot’s lov’d and noble Name:  How did he sing, (listen’d the Heav’nly Quire;) The Wond’rous Notes of DAVID’s Royal Lyre!  Ah! Why no more must we for ever long And vainly languish for so sweet a Song?  The next is Tityrus, who not disdains To read his Name among the tuneful Swains; Unweary’d in his Prince’s glorious Cause, 610 As he of Faith, Defender of the Laws; Easie to all but to himself, he shares His Monarch’s Favours, and his Monarch’s Cares:  His flowing Language cloaths his massie Sense, } Nor makes with pompous Words a vain pretence, } Sound without Soul, to Wit and Eloquence. } Tho Great, he’s still the same he was before:  —­I sue for nothing, and I’ll say no more. Montague left the Muses peaceful Seat, And bore the Cares and Honours of the Great:  620 The Pollio he of our Augustan days, Who Wit rewards with more than hungry Praise; True Worth his Patronage can never miss, He has his Prince’s Smiles and that has his.  Nor should he pass unprais’d whom all admire, Who, mixt with Seraphs, rules the Western Quire; Flowing and pure his unexhausted Vein, As Silver Thames, which, rolling down the Plain, Salutes his Sacred Dome.——­ But those profane who meanly thus commend, 630 Th’ Immortal Cowley’s and the Muses Friend.  Of matchless DRYDEN only Dryden’s Skill Could justly say enough,—­of Good or Ill. Envy must own he has our Tongue refin’d, And manly Sense with tend’rest Softness join’d:  His Verse would Stones and Trees with Soul inspire, As did the Theban and the Thracian Lyre:  His youthful Fire within, like Etna, glows, Tho Venerable Age around his Temples snows:  If from the modern or the antient Store 640 He borrows ought, he always pays ’em more:  So much improv’d, each Thought, so fine appears, WALLER or OVID scarce durst own ’em theirs.  The Learned Goth has scowr’d all Europe’s Plains, } France, Spain, and fruitful Italy he drains, } From every Realm and every Language gains:  } His Gains a Conquest are, and not a Theft; He wishes still new Worlds of Wit were left:  Thus haughty Rome, when, all the Firm surpass’d, Her Eagles found our moated World at last; 650