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In vulgar breasts no royal virtues dwell;
Such deeds as these his high extraction tell:
And give a secret joy to * him that reigns,
To see his blood triumph in MONMOUTH's veins:
To see a Leader whom he got, and chose,
Firm to his friends, and fatal to his foes.
But seeing envy, like the sun, does beat,
With scorching rays, on all that's high, and great :
This, ill-requited MONMOUTH! is the bough
The Mu s E s send, to shade thy conqu’ring brow.
Lampoons, like fquibs, may make a present blaze;
But time, and thunder, pay respect to bays.
ACHILLE s' arms dazle our present view;
Kept by the Muse as radiant, and as new,
As from the forge of VULCAN first they came:
Thousands of years are past, and they the same.
Such care she takes, to pay defert with fame!
Than which, no Monarch, for his crown's defence,
Knows how to give a nobler recompence.
To a Friend of the Author, a Person of
Honor, who lately writ a Religious Book, intitled, Historical Applications, and Occasional Meditations upon several Subjects.
OLD is the man that dares engage
For piety, in such an age!
Who can presume to find a guard
From scorn, when heav'n's so little spar'd ?
* K, Charles II.
Divines are pardon'd; they defend
Altars on which their lives depend :
But the profane impatient are,
make this their care:
For why fhould these let in a beam
Of divine light, to trouble them;
And call in doubt their pleasing thought,
That none believes what we are taught ?
High birth, and fortune, warrant give
That such Men write what they believe:
And, feeling first what they indite,
New credit give to antient light.
Amongst these few, our Author brings
His well known Pedigree, from Kings.
This book, the image of his mind,
Will make his name not hard to find:
I wish the throng of Great, and Good,
Made it less eas'ly understood !
To a Person of Honor, upon his incomparable,
incomprehensible Poem, intitled
BRITISH PRINCE S.
IR! you've oblig'd the BRITISH nation more,
And, at your own charge, monuments as hard
As brass, or marble, to your fame, have rear'd.
For, as all warlike nations take delight
To hear how their brave ancestors could fight;
You have advanc'd to wonder their Renown,
And no less virtuously improv'd your own :
That 'twill be doubtful, whether you do write,
Or they have acted, at a nobler height.
You, of your antient Princes, have retriev'd
More, than the ages knew in which they liv’d:
Explain'd their customs, and their rights a-new,
Better than all their Druids ever knew :
Unriddled those dark oracles, as well
As those, that made them, could themselves foretell.
For, as the BRITONS long have hop'd in vain,
ARTHUR would come to govern them again :
You have fulfill'd that prophesy alone,
And in your Poem plac'd him on his throne.
Such magic pow'r has your prodigious pen,
To raise the dead, and give new Life to men ;
Make Rival-Princes meet in arms, and love,
Whom distant ages did so far remove.
For, as 'eternity has neither past,
Nor future, authors say, nor firit, nor last;
But is all inftant; your eternal Muse
All ages can to any one reduce.
Then, why should you, whose miracles of art
Can life at pleasure to the dead impart,
Trouble in vain your better-busied head,
T'observe what times they liv'd in, or were dead?:
For, since you have such arbitrary pow'r,
It were defect in judgment to go low'r ;
Or stoop to things so pitifully lewd,
As use to take the vulgar latitude.
For, no man's fit to read what you have writ,
That holds not some proportion with your Wit,
As light can no way but by light appear :
He must bring sense, that understands it here.
To Mr. CREECH, on his Translation
of LUCRETIU S.
HAT all men wilh'd, tho'few could hope to see,
We are now bleft with, and oblig'd by thee.
Thou, from the antient learned Latin store,
Giv'st us one author, and we hope for more.
May they enjoy thy thoughts! Let not the Stage
The idleft moment of thy hours engage.
year that place some wond'rous monster breeds,
And the Wits' garden is o'er-run with weeds.
There, Farce is Comedy; bombast called strong ;
Soft words, with nothing in them, make a Song.
'Tis hard to say they steal them now-a-days;
For fure the antients never wrote such Plays.
These fcribbling insects have what they deserve,
Not plenty, nor the glory for to starve.
That SPENSER knew, that Tasso felt before;
And death found surly Ben exceeding poor.
Heav'n turn the omen from their image here !
May he with joy the well-plac'd laurel wear!
Great VIRGIL's happier fortune may he find,
And be our CÆSAR, like AUGUSTUS, kind!
But let not this disturb thy tuneful head;
Thou writ'st for thy delight, and not for bread :
'Thou art not curst to write thy verse with care;
But art above what other Poets fear.
What may we not expect from such a hand,
That has, with books, himself at free command ?
Thou know'ft in youth, what age has fought in vain;
And bring 'ft forth fons without a mother's pain.
So easy is thy sense, thy verse so sweet,
Thy words fo proper, and thy phrase fo fit;
We read, and read again : and still admire
Whence came this youth, and whence this wondrous fire !
Pardon this rapture, Sir! But who can be
Cold, and unmov’d, yet have his thoughts on thee?
Thy goodness may my several faults forgive,
And by your help these wretched lines
But if, when view'd by your severer fight,
They seem unworthy to behold the light;
Let them with speed in deserv'd flames be thrown!
They'll send no sighs, nor murmur out a groan ;
But, dying filently, your justice own.
CHEN thro’the world fair MAZARINE had run,
Bright as her fellow-traveller, the sun; Hither at length the Roman eagle flies, As the last triumph of her conqu’ring eyes. As heir to JULIUS, she may pretend A second time to make this Hand bend. But PORTSMOUTH, springing from the antiest race Of Britons, which the Saxons here did chase; As they great CÆSAR did oppose, makes head, And does against this new invader lead. That goodly Nympth, the taller of the two, Careless, and fearless, to the field does go. Becoming blushes on the other wait, And her young look excuses want of height.