I grieve to think that WALLER'S blam'd, WALLER, so long, so justly, fam'd. Then own your Verses writ in Haste, Or I shall say, you've lost your Taste.
Perhaps your loyal Heart disdains A Poet, who could take such Pains, To tune his sweet, immortal Lays To an usurping Tyrant's Praise: And, where you hate the Man, I see, You never like his Poetry. The Truth of this your Verse discovers; So you abus'd the Conscious Lovers.
Tho' in your Principles you glory, The Muses are not Whig nor Tory; So from your Sentence they appeal, Nor will be judg'd by Party Zeal. Whene'er a Poet's to be try'd, Let Pope hereafter be your Guide. "*Survey the Whole, nor seek slight Faults to find, Where Nature moves, and Rapture warms the Mind."
