Believe me, Edwards, to restrain The licence of a railer's tongue Is what but seldom men obtain By sense or wit, by prose or song:
A task for more Herculean powers, Nor suited to the sacred hours Of leisure in the Muse's bowers. In bowers where laurel weds with palm,
The Muse, the blameless queen, resides: Fair Fame attends, and Wisdom calm Her eloquence harmonious guides: While, shut for ever from her gate,
Oft trying, still repining, wait Fierce Envy and calumnious Hate. Who, then, from her delightful bounds Would step one moment forth to heed
What impotent and savage sounds From their unhappy mouths proceed? No: rather Spenser's lyre again Prepare, and let thy pious strain
For Pope's dishonour'd shade complain. Tell how displeased was every bard, When lately in the Elysian grove They of his Muse's guardian heard,
His delegate to fame above; And what with one accord they said Of wit in drooping age misled, And Warburton's officious aid:
How Virgil mourn'd the sordid fate To that melodious lyre assign'd, Beneath a tutor who so late With Midas and his rout combined
By spiteful clamour to confound That very lyre's enchanting sound, Though listening realms admired around: How Horace own'd he thought the fire
Of his friend Pope's satiric line Did further fuel scarce require From such a militant divine: How Milton scorn'd the sophist vain,
Who durst approach his hallow'd strain With unwash'd hands and lips profane. Then Shakspeare debonair and mild Brought that strange comment forth to view;
Conceits more deep, he said and smiled, Than his own fools or madmen knew: But thank'd a generous friend above, Who did with free adventurous love
Such pageants from his tomb remove. And if to Pope, in equal need, The same kind office thou wouldst pay, Then, Edwards, all the band decreed
That future bards with frequent lay Should call on thy auspicious name, From each absurd intruder's claim To keep inviolate their fame.
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