. Lyrics from a library . WILLIAM WINSTANLEY, CRITIC(1687) Long are the years, Sir Critic, long,Since you your galaxy of songSet with such pomp and proud intentFair in the Muses firmament!We can but smile at your acclaim,Or be it praise, or be it blame;—Whether at Miltons fame you flout,Cry how his candle is snuffed out,And glory, in judicial ease,Oer his poetic obsequies;Or whether you the merits chantOf Cleveland or of Davenant;Patronize Shakespeare, or dismissHerrick with light hypothesis. Out of the misty long agoThis truth your volume lives to show,—-That, though their wit be Hermes-shod,

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. Lyrics from a library . WILLIAM WINSTANLEY, CRITIC(1687) Long are the years, Sir Critic, long,Since you your galaxy of songSet with such pomp and proud intentFair in the Muses firmament!We can but smile at your acclaim,Or be it praise, or be it blame;—Whether at Miltons fame you flout,Cry how his candle is snuffed out,And glory, in judicial ease,Oer his poetic obsequies;Or whether you the merits chantOf Cleveland or of Davenant;Patronize Shakespeare, or dismissHerrick with light hypothesis. Out of the misty long agoThis truth your volume lives to show,—-That, though their wit be Hermes-shod,Critics, like Jove, do sometimes Time alone, with certain hand,Winnows the gold from shard and sand.

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