In polish'd numbers and majestic sound, Where shall thy rival, Pope! be ever found? But whilst each line with equal beauty flows, Ev'n excellence, unvaried, tedious grows. Nature, through all her works, in great degree, Borrows a blessing from variety. Music itself her needful aid requires To rouse the soul, and wake our dying fires. Still in one key, the nightingale would teaze; Still in one key, not Brent would always please.
