On the Same

Wonder not, sir, that praises yet ne'er due To any other are yet heap'd on you: 'Twas envy robb'd you of your praise before; Men see their faults, and envy now no more. 'Tis but your merit; nor can justly such, Which gave too little once, now give too much. Your "Princes" do all Poetry surpass As much as Pen-main-maur exceeds Parnass. It is so great a prodigy of Wit, That Art and Nature both fall short of it: For, leaving Art, and left of Nature too, Your Poem has no other Muse than you.