But whence so finish'd, so refin'd a piece?
The tongue denies it to old Rome and Greece;
The genius bids the moderns doubt their claim,
And slowly take possession of the fame.
But I nor know, nor care, by whom 'twas writ,
Enough for me that 'tis from human wit;
That soothes my pride: all glory in the pen
Which has done honour to the race of men.
But this have others done; a like applause
An ancient and a modern Horace draws.(67)
But they to glory by degrees arose,
Meridian lustre you at once disclose.
'Tis continence of mind, unknown before,
To write so well, and yet to write no more.
More bright renown can human nature claim,
Than to deserve, and fly immortal fame?
Next to the godlike praise of writing well,
Is on that praise with just delight to dwell.
O, for some God my drooping soul to raise!
That I might imitate, as well as praise;
For all commend: e'en foes your fame confess;
Nor would Augustus' age have priz'd it less;
An age, which had not held its pride so long,
But for the want of so complete a song.
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