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To his worthy Friend Mr. M. S. upon his Poem.
SIR, when your Verse and lofty Style I meet, Numbers so great, and Concord heav'nly sweet; Ravisht I am, the very Man you name, What Passion e're you write, I feel the same. And when of heav'nly Joys you write, I'd sware, That all the while you wrote, your Self was there: But when of those i'th' curst Abodes do dwell, Pardon, my Friend, I thought you was in Hell: So Dismally those Hellish Flames you paint, Enough to bring a Trembling on a Saint. When Blood'intents you write, you make me start, And think I see a Dagger at my Heart. But when with softer charming Language, You Fall like the heav'nly Manna, or the Dew. If Eve's Temptations in such Pow'rs did dwell? I cannot (Grandsire) think it strange you fell; Nor could an Angel, almost, keep his Sphere, And such a charming beaut'ous Creature hear. In brief, You make the Reader what you please, Torment him as you will, or give him Ease: You swallow up his Soul, and Senses quite, Whil'st he has pow'r to act but as you write.R. L. of Lincolns-Inn.