When James the first, at great Britannia's helm,
Rul'd this word-clipping and word-coining realm,
No word to royal favour made pretence,
But what agreed in sound and clash'd in sense.
Thrice happy he! how great that speaker's praise,
Whose ev'ry period look'd an hundred ways.
What then? we now with just abhorrence shun
The trifling quibble, and the school-boy's pun;
Tho' no great connoisseur, I make a shift
Just to find out a Durfey from a Swift;
I can discern with half an eye, I hope,
Mist from Jo Addison; from Eusden, Pope:
I know a farce from one of Congreve's plays,
And Cibber's opera from Johnny Gay's.