On The Spectator’s Critique On Milton by Laurence Eusden

Look here, ye Pedants, who deserve that name,
And lewdly ravish the great Critick’s fame.
In cloudless beams of light true judgement plays,
How mild the censure, how refin’d the praise!
Beauties ye pass, and blemishes ye cull,
Profoundly read, and eminently dull.
Though Linnets sing, yet Owls feel no delight;
For they the best can judge, who bestl can write.
O! had great Milton but surviv’d to hear
His numbers try’d, by such a tuneful ear;
How would he all thy just remarks commend!
The more the Critic, own the more the Friend.
But, did he know once your immortal strain,
Th’ exalted pleasure would increase to pain:
He would not blush for faults he rarely knew,
But blush for glories thus excell’d by you.

From: Nichols, John, A Select Collection of Poems: with Notes Biographical and Historical, Volume IV, 1780, J. Nichols: London, p. 157.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=_mUzAQAAMAAJ)

Date: 1712

By: Laurence Eusden (1688-1730)

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