DRYDEN is dead, DRYDEN alone could sing The full-grown Glories of a future King. Now GLOSTER dies: Thus lesser Heroes live By that Immortal Breath that Poets give; And scarce survive the Muse: But WILLIAM stands, Nor asks his Honours from the Poets Hands. WILLIAM shall shine without a DRYDEN'S Praise, His Laurels are not grafted on the Bays.
