TRUE PRAISE. From the same

When first my feeble Verse essay'd, Of heav'nly Joys to sing, Fancy was summon'd to my Aid Her choicest Stores to bring.

With study'd Words each rising Thought I deck'd, with nicest Art, And shining Metaphors I sought To burnish ev'ry Part.

Thousands of Notions swift did run, And fill'd my lab'ring Head; I blotted oft' what I begun, This was too flat, that dead.

To cloath the Sun, no Dress too fine I thought, no Words too gay, Much less the Realms that glorious shine In one Eternal Day.

Mean while I whisp'ring heard a Friend, "Why all this vain Pretence? "Love has a Sweetness ready penn'd, "Take that, and save Expence.