The Muses here their darling Pit inspir'd, And Dobson with poetick fury fir'd; Art perfected what nature had begun, A second Milton, and a Virgil's son; And Lowth, adorn'd with neverfading bays, In these sequester'd shades divides our praise: In this retirement from a frantick age, We scorn the follies which the great engage; Can see a play, a drum, a rout, a ball; And like Demosthenes can laugh at all: Tho' Cam, or Isis may the Muse delight, Yet Itchin in us claims an earlier right.
