The Bard, who knows his Muses' Strength aright, Proportions well his Language to his Flight: Beyond this Sphere he labours not to shine, This Praise, O Ramsay, is deserv'dly thine. Knowing the Themes adapted to your Skill, None else you sing, and never sing 'em ill. Nature sits easy in what you rehearse, And smiles Distinction on your flowing Verse. Writing to you, your happy Way I'd chuse; Who copies Thine, has Nature for his Muse. Thoughts from the Subject, Words from Thoughts arise, The Words all Musick, and the Thoughts all Wise.
