Here let me bend, great DRYDEN, at thy fhrine,
Thou dearest name to all the tuneful Nine.
What if fome dull lines in cold order creep,
And with his theme the poet feems to fleep!
Still, when his fubject rifes proud to view,
With equal strength the poet rises too :
With strong invention, nobleft vigour fraught,
Thought still springs up and rifes out of thought;
Numbers ennobling numbers in their course,
In varied sweetness flow, in varied force.
The powers of genins, and of judgment join,
And the whole art of poetry is thine.
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