To my chosen friend, the learned Translator of Lucan, Thomas May, Esquire

When, Rome, I read thee in thy mighty pair,
And see both climbing up the slippery stair
Of Fortune's wheel, by Lucan driv'n about,
And the world in it, I begin to doubt,
At every line some pin thereof should slack
At least, if not the general engine crack.
But when again I view the parts so pays'd,
And those in number so, and measure rais'd,
As neither Pompey's popularity,
Caesar's ambition, Cato's liberty,
Calm Brutus' tenor start, but all along
Keep due proportion in the ample song,
It makes me, ravish'd with just wonder, cry
What Muse, or rather God of harmony
Taught Lucan these true modes! replies my sense,
What gods but those of arts, and eloquence?
Phoebus, and Hermes? they whose tongue, or pen,
Are still th' interpreters twixt gods and men!
But who hath them interpreted, and brought
Lucan's whole frame unto us, and so wrought,
As not the smallest joint, or gentlest word
In the great mass, or machine there is stirr'd?
The self-same Genius! so the work will say:
The Sun translated, or the son of May.