Το TO THE AUTHOR O F ROSAMON D. Ne forte pudori Sit tibi mufa lyræ folers, et cantor Apollo. By Mr. TICKEL L. HE Opera firft Italian mafters taught, THE Enrich'd with fongs, but innocent of thought. Britannia's learned theatre difdains Melodious trifles, and enervate ftrains; And blushes on her injur'd stage to see No charms are wanting to thy artful fong, From words fo fweet new grace the notes receive, And mufic borrows helps, the us'd to give. Thy ftyle hath match'd what ancient Romans knew, Landskips how gay the bow'ry grotto yields, 'Till Vanbrugh fram'd, and Marlbro' rais'd the dome. Let joy transport fair Rofamonda's fhade, Alike they mourn, alike they bless their fate, Since love, which made 'em wretched, makes 'em great, Which gain'd a Virgil, and an Addison. And foars, to hail the God of verse and light. And thy own laurels shade thy envy'd name: While the charm'd reader with thy thought complies; And views thy Rofamond with Henry's eyes. |