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And from his brows damps of oblivion shed Full on the filial dulness: long he stood, Repelling from his breast the raging god; At length burst out in this prophetic mood: "Heavens bless my son! from Ireland let him reign

To far Barbadoes on the western main; 140 Of his dominion may no end be known, And greater than his father's be his throne; Beyond Love's Kingdom let him stretch his pen!"

He paused, and all the people cried "Amen."

Then thus continued he: "My son, ad

Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage; Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,

And in their folly show the writer's wit. Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,

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And justify their author's want of sense.
Let them be all by thy own model made
Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid,
That they to future ages may be known,
Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own. 160
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,
All full of thee, and differing but in name.
But let no alien Sedley interpose

To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose. And when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst cull,

Trust nature; do not labor to be dull;

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But write thy best, and top; and in each line

Sir Formal's oratory will be thine. Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,

And does thy northern dedications fill. 170 Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame

By arrogating Jonson's hostile name; Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,

And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise. Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part:

175 What share have we in nature or in art? Where did his wit on learning fix a brand, And rail at arts he did not understand? Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,

Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain?

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