On a Dull Writer

I. Silence! coeval with Eternity; Thou wert, ere Nature's-self began to be,'Twas one vast Nothing, all, and all slept fast in thee. II.

Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground. Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread

"Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool. But you yourself may serve to show it

Neque sermonibus vulgi dederis te, nec in præ­is spem posueris rerum tuarum; suiste oportet illecebris ipsa virtus trahat ad verum decus. Quid de te alii loquantur, ipsi videant, sed loquentur tamen.(Cicero

Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos; Sedjuvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis. (Martial, Epigrams 12.84)

Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flow'rs, Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs, There stands a structure of majestic frame, Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name.

Women ben full of Ragerie, Yet swinken not sans secresie. Thilke Moral shall ye understond, From Schoole-boy's Tale of fayre Irelond:

Celia, we know, is sixty-five, Yet Celia's face is seventeen; Thus winter in her breast must live, While summer in her face is seen.