_Tit._ O Melibaeus! 'twas a bounteous God,
These peaceful play-days on our muse bestowed;
At least, he'st alway be a God to me;
My lambs shall oft his grateful offerings be.
Thou seest, he lets my herds securely stray,
And me at pleasure on my pipe to play.
_Mel._ Your peace I don't with looks of envy view,
But I admire your happy state, and you.
In all our farms severe distraction reigns,
No ancient owner there in peace remains.
Sick, I, with much ado, my goats can drive,
This Tityrus, I scarce can lead alive;
On the bare stones, among yon hazels past,
Just now, alas! her hopeful twins she cast.
Yet had not all on's dull and senseless been,
We'd long agon this coming stroke foreseen.
Oft did the blasted oaks our fate unfold,
And boding choughs from hollow trees foretold.
But say, good Tityrus! tell me who's the God,
Who peace, so lost to us, on you bestow'd?"
Some critics there were, though but few, who joined Milbourne in his
abortive attempt to degrade our poet's translation. Oldmixon, celebrated
for his share in the games of the Dunciad,[20] and Samuel Parker,[21] a
yet more obscure name, have informed us of this, by volunteering in
Dryden's defence. But Dryden needed not their assistance. The real
excellencies of his version were before the public, and it was rather to
clear himself from the malignant charges against his moral principles,
which Melbourne had mingled with his criticism, than for any other
purpose, that the poet deemed his antagonist worthy of the following
animadversion:--"Milbourne, who is in orders, pretends amongst the rest
this quarrel to me, that I have fallen foul on priesthood: if I have, I
am only to ask pardon of good priests, and am afraid his part of the
reparation will come to little.
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