To my much valu'd Friend Moneses. 

Great Pæan now thy strongest Rays dispense,
 Give Virgils Flights and Dryden's Eloquence:
 All the fam'd Bards of sacred Poetry,
 Let their bright Flames revive again in me. 
Inspire my Breast whilst I his Praise rehearse,
 Whose worth deserves thy own immortal Verse;
 I sing Moneses whom the Gods ordain'd,
 To show their Form, e'er 'twas by Sin prophan'd:
 He is all Goodness, Mercy, Justice, Truth,
 Has all the Charms without the vice of Youth. 
These are the Native Beauties of his Soul,
 While every Art and Grace adorns the whole:
 Obliging is his Mein, his Judgment strong,
 A flowing Wit directs his pleasing Tongue;
 And each inchanting Accent which we hear,
 Like airs Divine Transport the list'ning Ear. 
Not Orpheus Harp, not yet Amphion's Lyre,
 Could with more Sweetness or more force inspire:
 Oh! what Infernal Magick Mortals bind,
 That his instructive Voice can't move the Mind,
 And calm the raging Follies of Mankind. 
(The passive Stones obey'd less powerful Sound,
 For in their heaps was no resisting Atoms found;)
 Not greater Pride or Joys did Ammon move,
 When by the Shrine, pronounc'd the Son of Jove:
 Then are the Transports my blest Soul attend,
 That I can call the brave Moneses Friend. 
Moneses whom Apollo has design'd,
 With his own Arts, to Heal and Charm Mankind;
 Fain would I still persue my wonderous Song,
 But oh! too fast the bright Ideas throng,
 Stifl'd in Raptures e'er they reach my Tongue:
 So when with greatest Zeal we Heaven accost,
 Our Notions all in Extacies are lost,
 We utter least, where it deserves the most.