William Congreve

Samuel Cobb, in Poetae Britannici (1700) 22.

This Congreve follows in his deathless Line,
And the tenth hand is put to the Design.
The happy boldness in his finish'd Toil
Claims more than Sh—r's Wit, or J—n's Oil.
Sing, sing, harmonious Swan, in weeping Strains,
And tell Pastora's Death to mournful Swains:
Or with more pleasing Charms, with softer Airs,
To Noble D—t bear thy Lyrick Song,
D—t, round whom the crouding Muses throng.
Sweeten our Passions, and delude our Cares.
Or let thy Satyr grin with half a smile,
And jeer in easie E—ge's style.
Let manly W—ly chalk out the way,
While Art directs where Nature goes astray.
'Tis not for Thee to write of conquering Kings,
The Noise of Arms will break thy Peaceful Strings.
The Teian Muse invites Thee from above,
To lay thy Trumpet down, and sing of Love.
Let M—gue describe Boyn's swelling Flood,
And purple Fields fatned with hostile Blood.