To My Ingenious Friend The Author Upon His Poetical Grammar.

Grammar, the scholar's labyrinth, sir, by you
Is now unmaz'd, and open'd by your clew:
Those cloudy parts of speech, which long have worn
Night's dress, shine now bright as the orient morn,
And courtly move; the lame sick heteroclite,
Peevish by their infirmity, now slight
The caps and crutches, and to measures fall;
And you at once have cur'd an hospital.
Welcome fair issue of your happy brain!
Now Phœbus rules in his own grove again;
For best examples from the laurel sprung,
And poets first adorn'd each learned tongue.
Where Lilly once was roar'd, the beardless throng
Shall chaunt thee forth, like airs thou shalt be sung;
And where youth learn these clear-composed rules,
'T shall not be Grammar call'd, but Music Schools.
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