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Besides, past Merits you shou'd not despise,
For Solomon, and William in disguise,
From his lov'd Pen regal'd your Ears and Eyes.
What tho nor Art, nor Nature, there were found,
He scorns by Art or Nature to be bound.
Let others toil beneath the Load of Thought
Of what is Just, what Natural, what not;
They're dull, mechanick Things, below Regard,
From such a Bold, and such a Lucky Bard.
Uncumber'd with those Fetters still he'll write,
While Ignorance ensures his hood-wink'd flight.
He fears no Danger, for he none foresees,
In happy Ignorance secure to please,
Without their Foreign Aid, th'Indulgent Town,
With Heroes and with Language, all his own.
The hooded Falcon, so, in haste let fly,
Tow'rs swift aloft, undaunted, to the Sky,
With upright Wing, till lost to human Eye.
 

In the Step Mother.

Tamerlane.