What just Surprize, bright Youth, thy Pen excites? How artful are its Strokes, how bold its Flights! What Critick dares, but with Confusion view His Limits bounded, and prescrib'd by you? So, when some young, but well-branch'd Tree shoot forth In cluster'd Gold, all Praise its early Worth; Rome! boast thy Head no more, to Britain stoop, Now Britain glories to confess a Pope.
