Alas! The Famous Settle, Durfy, Tate,  
That early propped the deep Intrigues of State;  
Dull Whiggish Lines the World could ne'er applaud,  
While your swift Genius did appear abroad.  
And thou great Bays, whose yet unconquered Pen  
Wrote with strange force, as well of Beasts as Men;  
Whose Noble Genius grieved from afar,  
Because new Worlds for Bays did not appear:  
None to contend with, the Ambitious Elf  
Gins a Civil War against himself:  

Alas! How cruel is a Poet's Fate,  
Or who indeed would be a Laureate,  
That must, or fall, or turn with every turn of State.   
Poor Bard! If thy hot Zeal for Loyal Wem,  
Forbids thy tacking sing his Requiem,  
Sing something, Prithee, to enure thy Thumb,  
Nothing but Conscience strikes a Poet Dumb:  
Conscience! That dull Chimaera of the Schools,  
A Learned Imposition upon Fools:  
Thee, Dryden, art not silenced with such stuff,  
‛ y'Gad thy Conscience has been large enough.  
But here are Loyal Subjects still and Foes,  
Many to Mourn for, many to Oppose:  
Shall thy great Master, thy Almighty Jove,  
Whom thou to place above the God's haste strove;  
Shall he from David's Throne so early fall,  
And Laureate Dryden not a tear let fall,  
Nor Sings the Bard his Exit in one poor Pastoral.  
Thee fear confines, thee, Dryden, fear confines,  
And Grief, not Shame, stops thy recanting Lines;  
Our Damon is as Generous as Great,  
And well would pardon tears that Love create.  
Shouldst thou in Justice to thy vexed Soul  
Not Sing to him, but thy lost Lord condole;  
But Silence is a Damning Error, John,  
I'd or my Master, or myself bemoan.   
FINIS.   

A POEM, in Praise of Beauty and Music, Set, by Mr. Will. Crofts, after the manner of a St. Caecilia's SONG.  

WHEN Mighty Jove the Universe had framed,  
And sprightly Man the Lord of all Proclaimed,  
With Joy and Innocence his Days were Crowned,  
For Music was the First, Great, Bliss he found;  
Then, Every Orb with Harmony did Rowl,  
And all Appeared as Tuneful as his Soul:  
Music began, Beauty, his Joys, Improved;  
For Woman soon Appeared, and then he Loved.   

Chorus.  
Then all, in a Chorus, your Instruments Raise,  
While Beauty and Music, with Music, we Praise.   

II.  
Music! the Pleasure of the Blessed,  
Beauty! the Wandering Lover's Rest;  
Music! the Spring of Soft Desire,  
And Beauty! Fuel to Love's Fire:  
By THIS the frozen heart is warmed,  
By THAT the Passions are Alarmed;  
For Who's so Cold whom Beauty cannot Fire?  
Or who So Dull that Music can't Inspire?   

III.  
Without these Two, we Justly might Complain  
That Life were Burdensome, and Vain,  
A Tedious Journey, full of Pain:   

IU.  
But when Beauty and Music together are Joined,  
Then, so great is the Pleasure it can't be Defined;  
And the Bliss we Enjoy, with Time, fly's so fast  
That Ages Run on e'er we think Minutes past.   

Chorus.  
Then All, in a Chorus, your Instruments Raise,  
While Beauty and Music, with Music, we Praise.