To a Person of Honour, on His Incomparable Poem

With envy, criticks, you'll this poem read, Whose author's wit does more than man exceed; Where all's so good alike, no man can say This may be added, or that par'd away: Where all's so new, no search can ever trace The persons mention'd; in their time, or place. Great soul of nature! which dost books defy, And their weak aid in this thy history: Thou art no slave to rule, or precedent; Where others imitate, thou dost invent. It is, we grant; all thy invention; The language too, intirely is thy own; Thou leav'st as trash, below thy great pretence, Grammar to pedants; and to plain men, sense: But, as in this thy matchless poetry Thou follow'st none, so none can follow thee.