The Sire then shook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dulness: long he stood,
Repelling from his Breaft the raging God;
At length burft out in this prophetick mood:
Heavens blefs my Son, from Ireland let him reign
To far Barbadoes on the Western main;
Of his Dominion may no end be known,
And greater than his Father's be his Throne ;
Beyond love's Kingdom let him ftretch his Pen;
He paus'd, and all the People cry'd Amen.
Then thus, continu'd he, my Son advance
Still in new Impudence, new Ignorance.
Success let others teach, learn thou from me
Pangs without birth, and fruitless Induftry.
Let Virtuofo's in five Years be writ;
Yet not one thought accufe thy toy of Wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the Stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the Pit,
And in their folly fhew the Writers wit.
Yet ftill thy fools fhall ftand in thy defence,
And juftifie their Author's want of fenfe.
Let 'em be all by thy own model made
Of dulnefs, and defire no foreign aid:
That they to future ages may be known,'
Not Copies drawn, but iffue of thy own.
Nay let thy men of Wit too be the fame,
All full of thee, and differing but in name;
But let no alien S--dl--y interpofe
To lard with wit thy hungry Epfom profe.
And when falfe flowers of Rhetorick thou would'ft
Truft Nature, do not labour to be dull; [cull,
But write thy beft, and top; and in each line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine.
Sir Formal, though unfought, attends thy quill,
And does thy Northern Dedications fill.