LXXXV.

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still, While comments of your praise, richly compiled, Reserve their character with golden quill,

And precious phrafe by all the Mufes filed.

I think good thoughts, whilst other write good words,
And, like unlettered clerk, ftill cry 'Amen'
To every hymn that able spirit affords,

In polish'd form of well-refined pen.

Hearing you praised, I say 'Tis fo, 'tis true,'
And to the most of praise add fomething more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmoft, holds his rank before.
Then others for the breath of words respect,

Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

LXXXVI.

Was it the proud full fail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his fpirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that ftruck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.

He, nor that affable familiar ghoft

Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors, of my filence cannot boast ;
I was not fick of

any fear from thence:

But when your countenance fill'd up his line,

Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.