The tuneful DRYDEN, born in happier days, Earn'd but fair ORMOND'S smile and DORSET'S praise. Mark him who fram'd his Creed to suit the day, Nor suffer'd politics to cloud his way, Now vend, distress'd, his base unpolish'd line, Now courtly bend at Adulation's shrine; In Ode, Play, Satire, try his varying skill, Still poor in purse, tho' rich in genius still; Now jeer'd by Lords, now jostled from the Pit— Prais'd, curs'd, and beaten for another's wit; While booby Critics hoot him to the grave As traitor, atheist, libertine, and knave! At length, due honours grace the Poet's dust: See SHEFFIELD, noble SHEFFIELD raise a bust, And JOHNSON throw a glory round a name Already shining in the rolls of Fame!
