Classic Poem

So shall we joy, when all whom Beasts and Worms
Had turn'd to their own Substances and Forms,
Whom Earth to Earth, or Fire hath chang'd to Fire,
We shall behold more than at first entire;
As now we do, to see all thine thy own
In this my Muse's Resurrection,
Whose scatter'd parts from thy own Race, more Wounds
Hath suffer'd, than Acteon from his Hounds;
Which first their Brains, and then their Belly Fed,
And from their Excrements new Poets bred.
But now thy Muse enraged from her Urn
Like Ghosts of Murder'd Bodies does return
T' accuse the Murderers, to right the Stage
And undeceive the long abused Age,
Which casts thy Praise on them, to whom thy Wit
Gives not more Gold than they give Dross to it:
Who not content like Felons to purloin,
Add Treason to it, and debase the Coin.
But whither am I straid; I need not raise
Trophies to thee from other Mens Dispraise;
Nor is thy Fame on lesser Ruins built,
Nor needs thy juster Title the foul Guilt
Of Eastern Kings, who to secure their Reign,
Must have their Brothers, Sons and Kindred slain.
Then was Wits Empire at the fatal height,
When labouring and sinking with its weight,
From thence a Thousand lesser Poets sprung,
Like petty Princes from the Fall of Rome ;
When Johnson, Shakespear , and thy self did sit,
And sway'd in the Triumvirate of Wit——
Yet what from Johnson 's Oyl and Sweat did flow,
Or what more easie Nature did bestow
On Shakespear 's gentler Muse, in thee full grown
Their Graces both appear, yet so that none
Can say here Nature ends, and Art begins,
But mixt like th'Elements and Born like Twins,
So interweav'd, so like, so much the same,
None, this meer Nature, that meer Art can name:
'Twas this the Antients meant; Nature and Skill
Are the two tops of their Parnassus Hill.