John Dryden

Happy who in his verse can gently steer From grave to light, from pleasant to severe.

Thespis, the first professor of our art, At country wakes sung ballads from a cart.

Their heavenly harps a lower strain began, And in soft music mourn the fall of man.

But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be; Within that circle none durst walk but he.

All things are hush'd, as Nature's self lay dead, The Mountains seem to nod their drowsy head; The little Birds in dreams their Songs repeat, And sleeping Flowers, beneath the night-dew sweat; Even Lust and Envy sleep.

An horrid stillness first invades the ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.