[Page]AN ESSAY ON POETRY; Written by the Marquis of NORMANBY, And the same render'd into LATIN by another Hand, With several other POEMS, viz.

An Epistle to the Lord Chamberlain, on His Ma­jesty's Victory in IRELAND; By the Honourable Mr. Montague.

An Epistle to the Honourable Mr. Montague, on His Majesty's Voyage to HOLLAND; By Mr. Stepny.

An Epistle to Monsieur Boileau; by Mr. Arwaker.

A Poem[?] on the Promotion of several Eminent Persons in Church and State; by Mr. Tate.

To which are added the following POEMS, Never before in Print, viz.

An ODE in Memory of the late QVEEN; by a Person of Quality.

A POEM on the Late Horrid Conspiracy; by Mr. Stepny.

London, Printed for F. Saunders, at the Blue Anchor in the Lower-Walk of the New-Exchange in the Strand, MDCXCVII.

[Page]To the Honourable Sir Robert Howard, One of His Majesty's Most Ho­nourable Privy-Council, &c.

SIR,

THE Collecting into One Volume Several Choice Poems that were first Printed singly, met with so kind Reception as encourag'd the Publishing of the following Pieces together. Amongst the Former your celebrated Duel of the Stags made a Princi­pal Figure; as indeed it will always shine a fixed Star in the highest Orb of English Poetry. Great and Eminent as you are in other Stations, yet I hope, Sir, you will not disdain to be Register'd amongst the Sons of Apollo. The Off-springs of your Muse are so Beautiful, that Great Britain is proud of 'em; and if you are not equally pleas'd with 'em, 'tis the first Instance of your Indifference towards any thing that does Honour to your Country. She glories that your Genius has not been confin'd to any single Walk of Poetry, but travers'd all its Provinces, and (like Hercules) every where erected Pillars and Trophies, to be gaz'd upon with wonder by Posterity. Nature and Art are equal sharers in all you Write; and whatever the Subject has been, Invention, Spirit, Manly Sense and Iudgment are never wanting to adorn it. You are, Sir, deservedly Admir'd for the Ingenuity of your Own Works, and no less for your generous Candour to the Performances of Other Men. You are no rigid Censurer of [Page] their Faults, but their Excellencies never escape your Obser­vation. This is the Noblest Part of Criticism, as requiring not only a discerning Apprehension, but a Goodness of Temper which is not always found in Persons of Wit.

But, Sir, besides the Honour you have done the Muses in theiroown Faculty, you have further advanc'd their Reputation, by shewing the World, that a Poet can likewise be a States­man and Patriot of his Country. To your Knowledge in all the Liberal Sciences, you have acquir'd that Nobler Skill in the Constitution of our Government, and exerted it upon all Occasions in behalf of English Liberty and Property. You have not contented your self with the private Exer­cise of Iustice and Generosity, but have shewn a Publick Spirit, employing your great Sense and Sagacity in mat­ters of National Importance. What you have written with relation thereunto, and what has been spoken by you in Debates of Vastest Consequence, had no small Influence on the Sefflement of our State. These are inviting oc­c [...]sions for P [...]egyrick, but above my small Capacity: Where [...]o [...]e I return to my first Design of presenting to you the following Collection of Poems [...] amongst which I know but One that needs any Apology. But I have atton'd for Tha [...], by procuring to be here Publish'd an Ode on her l [...]e Maj [...]ty, (never before Printed) which, perhaps, is the [...] Picture of her Virtues that has been drawn. I was only permitted to know that the Author is a Person of Quality; which appears by that easy and agreeable Air, by that Justn [...]ss and Decency, both in Thought and Expression, that shi [...]es through every Stanza.

Sir, I shall no farther [...]respass on your precious Minutes, only to beg Pardon for this Address, and Permission to Sub­scribe my self,

Your Honour's most Devoted Humble Servant, N. TATE [...]
AN ESSAY ON POETRY: …

AN ESSAY ON POETRY: BY THE Right HONOURABLE, THE EARL of MULGRAVE.

The Second Edition.

LONDON, Printed for Io. Hindmarsh, at the Golden-Ball over against the Royal Exchange in Cornhil. MDCXCI.

Typographus Lectori.

CVM Paraphraseos hujus forte manus in meas exemplar esset delatum, idque eru­ditis quibusdam viris non usquequáque displiceret, haud abs re nostra alienum fore visum est, si in Anglici exemplaris Editione hac alterâ, exterorum in gratiam, cum illo pariter typis man­daretur. Te verò, Lector amice, si bene quid de te merui, deprecatorem apud illustrissimum Au­thorem adscisco, ut ausum hoc aequo animo, & be­nigniorem in partem pro humanitate sua dignetur interpretari.

ERRATA.

PAG. 1. lin. 1. dele, lin 12. post quae del. ad. p. 4. vers. 2. post supellex del.? p 6. v. 29. pro occursent lege incurse [...]t. p. 10. v. 8. pro lenita est, leg. lenitur. p. 12 v. 5. pro Elegia leg. Elege [...]a. v. 21. pro sed, leg sin. p. 14. nonus & decimus versus communi charactere. p. 14. li [...]. ult. pro indignans, leg. indignum ! & pro nec jam reminiscitur alas: leg. [...]leres ne [...]ue commovet alas. p. 22. lin. 19. post hic lege operae, pro operum. p. 24. v. 11. pro h [...]n [...] inde inspergat, lege inspergat parcus.

TENTAMEN DE ARTE POETICA, AUTHORE Comite de MULGRAVE, Regis nuper JACOBI II. Hospitii Regii Camerario magno, à Secretioribus Consiliis, &c.

EX Anglico Latinè Redditum, per J.N. M.A.

TENTAMEN DE ARTE POETICA.

INter opes varias queis mens, humana superbit,
Fert primam rectè scribendi gloria palmam:
Nec genus est ullum, ceu fructum, sive laborem
Spectes, (laus magna, at magno molimine constat,)
Conferri ex minima quod possit parte Poesi:
Tantùm ex [...]a [...], gressuque artes supereminet omnes.
Sed procul à me sit furor impius ille, profano
Scriptorum ut vulgo, pede si quis claudere certo
Versiculos possit, tinnituque impleat aures
Barbarico, sacri dem nominis hujus honorem.
Non vis plus justâ calefacti parte cerebri
Ignea sufficiat, vani quae ad fulguris instar
Perstringitque oculos, medioque extinguitur ictu,
Ingenii verus vigor, ac vena aemula Solis
AEternùm nitet, ac proprio fulgore coruscat;
Nunc rutilum condit caput inter nubila, victor
Continuò erumpit, mare, tellus, aethera rident.
Quò mihi verborum, aut rerum quoque lauta supellex?
Quò metrum, dulcique fluentes agmi [...]a versus
Asperior teneras [...]uti nè vox raderet [...]ures?
(Sunt vulgi, nec abesse feram, aut praesentia laudo)
Si Genius desit, si non infusa per artus
Mens [...]gitet molem, & se corpore misceat, ingens
Naturae sequitur ceu nutum machina Mundi?
Entheus ille calor percurrit singul [...], verbis
Major, & ingenio sublimior, & Genitorem
Coelestem referens, o [...]ulis impervius ipse
Cuncta aperit, pingitque omnes, neque pingitur ulli.
Nympha potens, hominum requies, divûmque voluptas,
Quas habitas sedes? cerebri num credere fas est
Angusto hospitio tantum se includere Numen?
Qu [...]ve proterva fugis, multùm aspernata vocantem
Cùm te difficilem, duramque per otia ploro?
Unde redis? nec opinantem quâ lege revisis,
Intentumque aliò, non dextro tempore cogis
Ad juga? tum pendent opera interrupta, diei
Languent officia, & spernuntur gaudia noctis.
Sentio jam—sed lenis ades, cohibeque furorem:
Iudicium sine natura torpetque, jacetque;
Haec sin [...] judicio tantùm est speciosa phrenesis.
Iudicio acri opus est, partes quod se addit in omnes,
Quod mores bominum, quod res, quod temperat orbem,
Nedum ut scribendi tenui in ratione gubernet.
Pluma velut calami, vel arundinis, illa volatum
Promovet, hoc acuit ferrum, vi, pondere donat,
Haec cordi arrepit, mentis ratio occupat arcem.
In varias hîc ut describam carmina classes,
Divisio Poe­matis.
Cum numeris, pedibusque suis, coepti exigit ordo.
Sed quis enim sanus velit hoc decurrere campo
Per quem magnus equos
Horatius.
Venusini flexit alumnus?
Illius auspiciis scandas Helicona virentem,
Instruit exemplo qui vatem, moribus ornat,
Legibus emendat: mendax imitator, ut Echô,
Quid nisi verborum formas manco ordi [...]e reddit?
Solenne est, fateor, seniorum scripta profanâ
Compilare manu, [sic vasa argen [...]ea servi
Cùm furto abstulerint permutant signa, notasque,
Proque suis jactant] sed quis sibi cui pudor ac frons
Tam miseris opibus tam insigni fraude placeret?
Hoc jure & Sophoclem totum sibi vindicet Actor,
Pro quavis Tragoedia.
Oedipodem si tu transcripseris Autor haberis,
Quantò is qui memori recitavit mente Theatro?
Verùm aliquos liquit vindemia plena racemos,
Fas eti [...]in nobis acquirere pau [...], refixit
Desuetudo aliquas, tempus, nova crimina, leges
Procudêre novas: sic rerum postulat usus.
Quid furto hîc Satyram, cui tot patrimonia pascas?
Cùm vix ulla malis sit terra fer [...]cior herbis?
Quot nec Nilus alit cùm occursent undique monstra?
Sed neque, plebs vatum, vobis permitto timere,
Nec vacat, aut Satyrae est morientes figere muscas:
Destinat his operam, qui aliqua virtute merentur,
In melius flecti dociles, monitoribus aequi.
Carminibus prim [...]t [...]ervent hîc omnia, gaudet
Carmine quisque suo Crispinus, Apolline nullo,
Nec mora, nec requies, cuicunque est obvius usquam,
Ignotum tristemve petens, discrimine nullo,
E [...]se velut stricto incurrit, vimque auribus infert.
Carmina pro­priè dicta vel Cantilenae.
Hîc multos brevitas, speciesque inducit biante [...],
Verùm alius labor expertis, ac fronte videtur,
Nec tenerum magis est genus, aut operosius ullum.
Namque utì cum filo gemmas longo ordine nectis,
(Dilectae armillas, teretive monilia collo)
Mendosas numerus tegit, ac vicinia; fiat
Annulus, hoc unam ostentes, nubecula quaevis
Apparet, vitiumque oculis subjecta fatetur;
Sic nisi cuncta nitent in carmine, sordet;
Summae artis cantilenam componere.
habenda
Verborum est ratio, ut ne arcessita, locisque
Mota, minùs propria, aut immodulata, trahantur.
Dictio sit facilis, sublimis carmine sensus,
Ut neque serpat humi stylus, aut mens nubila captet.
Cum sensum cum verba poliveris, altera cura est
Ut lateat labor, & casus ferat artis ho [...]orem:
Tale unum ostendas, & Phyllida solus babeto.
Praecipuè, & partes haec regula spectat in omnes,
Foeda procul fugias, obscoenáque nomina; scurra
Ingenio defectus ad hoc decurrit asylum.
Polluit ingenium sic Vates nobile, serus
Qui sapuit, moriens sic spurca volumina flevit,
Ipsius ut credam censurae ignoscere Manes.
Non quòd circuitu blando insinuata voluptas
Displiceat senibus, moveat fastidia castis:
Verùm immundities, tante est inscitia, coeptis
Officit ipsa suis, congestum ut inutile lignum
Obruit inceptas cumulato fomite flammas.
Insurgit graviore tono gravioribus aptus
Elegi.
Materiis Elegus, virtutis pangit honores,
Ingenii, formae decus; & solatia luct [...]s
Exigua, heu! spretos quoties deflevit Amores!
Nequicquam, nam quae [...]enita est foemina versu?
Mentis inops stolidos, varios mutabilis ipsa,
Absurdos sine corde sonos, sine mente figuras,
(Tetrior haud Stygiis pestis caput extulit undis)
Ultrò ambit mulier, mulier se agnoscit in illis.
Sed melius meritis laudi est censura nocentum,
Arrogat & pretium vilis plebecula paucis:
Quae favet ingenio, quae vatem cernit inepto
AEterno illam Elegus donabit gratus honore,
Cedet Laura loco, dediscet fama Corinnam.
Sed quò transversum, quae nunc per devia raptas
Improbe Amor? sine me spatiis decurrere coeptis.
Non equidem in genere hoc vel vim vel verba requiro,
Nostratum haec laus est, sed adhuc majore caremus;
Flumineos quanquam vincas dulcedine cygnos,
Et proprios habeant vel disticha cuncta lepores,
(Qualia plura, brevi peritura, per ora feruntur)
Si junctura deest, junctis si partibus ordo,
Altior it sensim, ni copula quaeque priori,
Ut qui fallenti scandit viridaria clivo,
Nitenti in plano similis, simul ardua ventum est
Prospectum attonito circumspicit ore, stupetque
Inscius ad tantum se pervenisse cacumen.
Hoc Epigramma voces, des nomen quodlibet illi.
Non est artis opus, non est Elegia, quali
Flexisti rigidum,
Panegyris Walleri Cro [...] ­wellio dicata.
vates divine, tyrannum:
Infensos
Poema Den­hamii equitis elegantissi­mum, Coopers­hill dictum, prope Win [...] ­ [...]oram, ubi ce lebris quae vul­gò Magna Charta voca­tur, signata fuit.
alius proceres, Regemque superbum
Colliculo in celebri mansura in foedera traxit.
Ut Bellator equus sonitum simul arma dedêre
Hûc prosultat, & hûc, micat auribus, & tremit artus,
Ipsum equitem terret tanquam excussurus in auras,
Pindarica attonitum sic versant oestra Poetam:
Is furor est Musae cum implevit mentem animumque:
Pindarica.
AEmulus hîc veterum
Couleius.
novus omnia puncta tulisset,
Lemma prae­fixum Pi [...]da­ricis Odis Cou­leii.
Pindarici fontis qui non expalluit haustus;
Si non vulgari percussa, heu! verba monetâ
Detraherent pretium mansu [...]e in secula venae.
Insanire quidem licet hoc in carmine, verùm
Insanire decet certâ ratione, modóque.
Vehementes sensus, liquido sed slumine verba
Lucida procurrant; sed hâc in parte severus
Exactor videar, naturâ constat, & ausu
Hoc opus, ingenium campo dominatur aperto;
Et data Pindaricae, summa indulgentia Musae
Satyra [...]
.
Cùm neque mos, neque lex, torva aut sapientia prosit,
Lebenti in pejus Satyra succurritur orbi:
Haec docet exemplis animos, dum pectora mulcet,
Venam aperit ridens, & grato vulnere sanat.
Dicta prius non hîc repetendum tollere paucos
Contentis solùm dilecto è corpore naevos.
In Satyra verborum & numerorum ratio habenda.
Huic non eloquium, non lecta vocabula curae,
Materiam rigidam parili sermone notanti;
Ille merum è plaustro jactat pus, atque venenum;
Stultus utrisque labor; nunquam haec te regula fallet,
Ut Stylus, & cultus, sit splendidus, atque virilis,
Laeviaque immanes commendent carmina sensus.
Si latrare satis, si rodere dente canino,
Quî Satyrum infami poteris dignoscere scurrâ?
Aut iram ponas, aut dissimulare memento,
Invitus videaris ad hanc descendere partem,
Occultaturi speciem des crimina promens,
Sic rem conficias tanquam inter vina jocosus
Petronius.
Arbiter, alta sedent ludentis vulnera dextrae.
Sic ubi Rivalem spernis, vel laude malignâ
Effers, imponit probitas simulata puellae.
Indivulsa comis hîc haeret laurea
Dr—nus celeberrimus Poeta Anglus, in Satyra faci­le princeps.
vati
Stigmate qui Bavium mansuro in sêcla notavit:
Ille olim
Falsò suspe­ctus, vulnera­tus, & lauda­tus ob Poema Satyricum cu­jus revera auctor non fuit.
felix alieno vulnere, eundem
Et Satyris propriis quandóque meretur honorem.
Pegasus ast humiles si se summittit ad usus
Serpit humi, indignans, nec jam reminiscitur [...]alas.
Iamque opus emensos mediâ plus parte Quadrigas
Siste parùm; major rerum tibi nascitur ordo:
Ut de Caucasei Iovis ales vertice saxi,
Sive fames jubet, aut coeli inclementia sedes
Explorare novas, tepidúmque invisere Solem;
Longum iter, & pennis luctantes cogitat Austros,
Metiturque oculis spatia, & circumspicit alas;
Mox ubi propulerit vigor, & nova gloria coepti,
Indignans terram repulit, jam jamque videri
Desut, & nimbos superans latet aethere toto:
Sic, impar licet, aggreditur Musa aspera dictu,
Invidiam
Remittit Ho­ratius Deme­trium Ti­gellium ad Di­scipularum Cathedras.
cathedris, odium motura Poetis;
Dictum de apibus apud Virgilium.
Illis ira modum supra est, laesique venenum
Morsibus inspirant, sed quis succenseat aequus
Fraenanti audaces, dociles melior a monenti?
Quin age & insanis paulum adsis, diva, Theatris.
Principio, veteres quae praecepêre Magistri
Ut persona, locus, res, hor a cohaereat aptè,
Sunt haec nota satis, sed, quae infortunia Legum,
Observata parùm, ad communia scripta relego,
Sat nostros vix tacta aliis monuisse Britannos.
De Solilo­quiis: ut bre­via, & rara sint [...]
Si visum ut solus quid secum disserat Actor,
Sit breve, sit graviter commoti; ita flagitat usus
Communis vitae; noster, cùm desit Achates,
Arcanos gestit podio omni credere sensus:
Nec refert, sisub specie narrantis amico,
Enarret nobis; fluere ex re occasio debet,
Ut tandem miseros cùm Phaedra fatetur Amores.
Exultat bona pars juvenilibus usque figuris,
De Figuris & Metaphoris.
Naturam spernunt, spernit Natura vicissim,
Ipsa suis pollens opibus, nihil indiga fuci:
[...]is locus est [...]erè solùm in Descriptioni­bus.
His locus est cum tristem hyemem, fluvlosque rapaces,
Aut lucum, & rivos, vel amoena rosaria pingis.
Sed cùm declamat summus dolor, ira perorat,
In numerum cantat spretus, moribundus Amator,
Quem non haec lapidem moveant? quàm flebilis Heros,
Vitam exhalanti cui jam vacat esse diserto?
Dicta seni in cymba jacit importuna Charonti.
Ob [...]e [...]io.
Verùm in Colloquiis cornicum lumina figunt.
Resp.
Tùm verò ludit rabies, luctusque cachinnat:
Utque vices variant pueri super aere canoro,
Sive lubet magis ex compactâ subere plumâ,
Illa volat, volitatque, volat volitatque per auras,
Itque reditque viam toties, stupet inscia turba,
Impubesque manus, mirata volatile suber;
Mutua sic Tragici ludunt: quis talia spectans
Temperet è plausu! sed quo vos nomine dicam
Naturae, ac sanis jurdti sensibus hostes?
Ironicé.
Fac, actor, rythmo immoriare Tragoedia bella est:
Communis sensûs c [...]m sit scintillula, mille
Artibus ac miserum liceat cùm extundere victum,
Quae versant furiae, ut mendica infamla vobis,
Ut contempta fames placeat? quae plurima turba
Ignorant olei quanti drama, atque laboris:
Ingenii felix, verborum flumine puro,
Qui legit veteres, aulam perspexit, & urbem,
Quin & Naturae rimans penetralia sens [...]s
Eruit arcanos, nováque hinc miracula promit [...]
Ille onus hoc laetus subeat, speretque reposci,
Invidiam spernat, Criticis medium exerat unguem.
Precepta & exempla Dialogorum è Socraticis, Lu­c [...]anóque pe­tenda.
Ut rectè, ut propriè roget, ac respondeat Actor,
Socraticae solae poterunt ostendere chartae:
[...]antùm non latuit Romam ars, vix cognita nostris,
Nequicquam obnixis vitioso emergere sêclo.
Hîc tamen, ut patriae meritos solvamus Honores,
Dirigit obscuros vatûm
Shakespear & Fletcher prae­stantissim [...] Po­ctae D [...]matici apud Anglos.
par nobile gressus,
Sublimes, quantùm non noxia tempor a tardant,
Incultique hebetant mores, perituraque lingua:
Fessa tamen recreant alienis pectora curis,
Vel
Qui nun­quam risisse perhibetur, & inde cogno­mentum ha­buit.
Crasso excutiant risum lachrymásque
Vetitum Stoicis flere.
Catoni.
Nocturnâ hos versate manu, versate diurnâ,
Spectate interdum, seris legite inde lucernis,
AEra periti auro, tumidumque abscindere sôldo.
FABULA
De Fabula.
contulerit multûm meditata potenter,
Illecti hâc solâ nonnunquam aulaea manemus.
Non quae­tendi sunt per­fecti Chara­cteres, Stoico­rum in mo­rem, qui nul­lum omnino naevum sapien­ti suo inessepa­tiuntur.
Stoica sollicitam neu ludant somnia mentem,
Ut tibi perfectè sapiens, fortisve, bonúsve,
Ponatur: laudi est Picturae, sive Poesi,
Naturae nescire modum? facit ille Gigantem,
Non hominem, ignotum terris, & amabile monstrum.
Denique tale nihil peperit Natura; subesse
Culpam opus est: ut nè immeritò cecidisse feratur,
Sed lapsus, veniâ, & lachrymis, dignissimus, Heros.
Nec satis est tota ut recto stet Fabula talo,
Scit scenae tenerae sua Fabula:
De Scenis prae­cipuis
divitis Horti
Magnificam exornat velut area quaeque figuram.
Multus & in parvis labor est; circumspice partes,
Cuique repone suas veneres, in imagine prima
Ut vultûs signat vestigia creta futuri.
Nec te poeniteat modulum diffingere, s [...]res
Suadet, pars operae est non parva litura Poetis.
De Lumini­bus quae vo­cantur, Orati­onis.
Solliciti plures dicendi ubi lumina ponant,
(Purpureos longo collectos tempore pannos,)
Personis faciunt vim, convenientia mittunt,
Facundè absurdi; te consule sedulus ipsum,
Quis sensus foret in parili tibi sorte jacenti:
Quod petis, intus habes, foecundum concute pectus.
De Actori­bus formandis.
Sit limata licèt tenuem comoedia ad unguem,
Non tamen hîc operum finis; saepe actor agetur
Ipse, docendus utì gestum addat sensibus aptum;
Si piget ad tenues animum submittere curas,
Immerita ingenuos occident Sibila Vates.
De Characte­ribus novis ut ne Comoe­diae veteris in morem unum quemvis de­fignent.
Si nova difficili persona addenda Theatro,
Non unum effingas
Pro quovis inepto.
Crispinum, ac simulator in arctum
Desilias, ales prostrata cadavera spernit
Nobilis, insultat ferali carmine bubo.
Vulgare est Monstrum derisor ineptus inepti.
Verùm ut apes pictis in saltibus omnia libant,
Mel inde, hinc ceras, & miscent utile dulci:
Personam ex multis sic texas sedulus unam,
(Est seges ampla satis, vati & respondet avaro:)
Falstaff cele­bris character Comicus apud Shakesperum.
Fert palmam hîc, sensa ut promam liberrima,
Miles,
Helluo, vanus, adulator, comes usque facetus.
Illo gaudet eques, vicies repetitus amatur,
Vix anteacta parem, vix postera proferet aetas.
Saepe & sic venâ rapitur torrente Poeta,
Ingenii ut fatuas personas flumen inundet:
Rusticus Urbani speciem fert, servus, honesti,
Non sua dicta crepat, subitóque ut numine plenus
Morio quisque sapit: nisi quadrant dicta loquentis
Personae, risum moveas mihi forte, sed ipse
Rideris, Scriptor: curâ ipsa enascitur error,
Modus dicte­riis adhiben­dus.
Cùm salibus nimius lassas onerantibus aures,
Sedulitate urget, movet ac fastidia vates:
Exprimat ut mores caput est, tum deinde Lepores
Hinc inde inspergat, cum lumine misceat umbram.
Sed quia quos fugiunt praecepta, exempla movebunt,
Ecce brevi in tabula, ne postera nesciat aetas,
Ora habitúsque virûm, nostris quae forma poetis:
Imago ridicu­la Tragoediae recentioris.
Inversos sensus, Scenae ac portenta videre est.
Lampades ut primùm accensae, ac aulaea recedunt,
Soliloquus longùm placido sermone perorat,
Et tenui eventus cunctos examine librat:
Conticuit simul is tandem (quae cura decoris)
Ad litui sonitum fugitans inducitur heros:
Obvius hîc Nymphae (miranda potentia fati!)
Deperit intuitu primo, rasisque dolorem
Antithetis probat, & turbati pectoris aestus.
Cùm subito infelix casus divulsit Amantes,
Ignotus nobis, (scit vates omnia) solus,
AEger, Zelotypos concepit protinus ignes:
Mox (ut Rivali placeat) juvat ire sub umbras.
Sed priùs & Coelos & conscia Sydera testans,
Absenti Nymphae flammas longo ordine narrat:
Rivalique suos moriens commendat Amores.
Cùm (monitu Jovis) ille supervenit, & grave telum
Serò inhibet, casúque animum perculsus acerbo,
Invidet ignoto tam pulchrae mortis Honorem;
Continuò incensus fumantem corripit ensem,
Non illum flectet Genitor, dulcésque Hymenaei,
Nec moritura super crudeli funere Virgo,
Quin, Heroo ictu, media inter viscera condat,
Vicit Amor Lethi, plausûsque immensa cupido.
Fortunati ambo!
Quaenam haec monstra putem, non his opus humida laurus,
Sulphura cum taedis, dira ut portenta pientur?
Candidus haec ubi commonui, quidam insit ineptus,
Deperit hic Veteres, nos nostraque lividus odit:
Object.
(Sic Spectatores luimus delicta Poetae.)
Tun [...] vitio affectum potes hunc mihi vertere?
Re [...]o [...]s.
rectè
Iudicium totâ cum de ratione Theatri
Vix nisi sana ferat, studio, invidiâque remota,
Posteritas? oculos nam quae mentesque morantur,
Saltator, cultus peregrinus, machina praeceps,
Italici cantus, puerilis noenia rythmi,
(Imbecilla nimis ruituri fulcra Theatri)
Languescunt; quid apud seros valitura nepotes?
Quondam etiam illusis redit in praecordia sensus.
Iam tandem Aonii praerupta per ardua montis
Aerium lasso juvdt insedisse cacumen.
Poema Epi­ [...]m.
Secreti hîc Epici Divûm potiuntur honore,
Luctantesque infrà tranquillo lumine rident.
Quis dubitet cunctas Epico quin carmine vires
Exerat, ingenio metas figatque supremas,
Rerum sancta Parens, cum post tentamina mille,
Innumeros nisus post temporis infiniti,
Vix tandem ediderit binos?
Homerum & Virgilium.
sacer horror in ipsis
Nominibus, neque enim est ea fas proferre profanis.
Quantùm Atlas nanum transcendit corpore, quanio
Delirus sapiente relinquitur intervallo,
Tantum inter cunctos extat par nobile fratres:
Fama ambit, Favor, ac plausus comitantur cuntes.
Forte & in aeterna jacuissent secula nocte
Inscia quâ fierent arte haec miracula, vastas
Indus utì pelago spectans innare carinas,
Si non
Criticus Gal­licus celeberri­mus.
Bossutius sacros penetrare recessus
Ausus, qui numeri, pandens, quis carminis ordo,
Unde parentur opes, & quâ virtute snbacto
Semina missa solo caput inter nubila condant.
Certe aliquis Divûm, nostro qui consulit aevo.
Per Labyrintheos texit vestigia flexus.
Strata via est, nemon' carpi [...]duce, & auspice f [...]nto?
Quid juvat Hesperidum heu! dives prospectus in hortos,
Si vetitum, ut sacros, neque mens decerpere fructus!
Quis cunctas, animi felix, complectitur artes?
Quis rationem, audax cautè, superevolat ipsam,
AEthereumque regit certo moder amine oursum?
Iudicium ingenio quis miscuit arte Maronis,
Nusquam deficiens, nullâque in parte redundans?
Qui conferre potest quod non
Coulcius.
Davideidos auctor,
Miltonus.
Primaevi aut meliùs ceci [...]it qui fata Parentis,
Tasso.
Vel Solymas captas,
Spencerus.
vel qui celebravit Elisam,
Incipiat, sed plura manen [...], quae viribus istis,
Et tenui venâ nos ut majora tacemus.
FINIS.

AN ESSAY ON POETRY.

OF things in which Mankind does most excel,
Nature's chief Master-piece is Writing well;
And of all sorts of Writing none there are
That can the least with Poetry compare:
No kind of Work requires so nice a touch,
And if well finish'd, nothing shines so much;
But Heav'n forbid we should be so profane,
To grace the Vulgar with that sacred Name;
'Tis not a flash of Fancy which sometimes
Dazling our Minds, sets off the slightest Rhimes;
Bright as a Blaze, but in a moment done;
True Wit is everlasting, like the Sun;
Which tho sometimes behind a Cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.
Number, and Rhime, and that harmonious Sound,
Which never does the Ear with Harshness wound,
Are necessary, yet but vulgar Arts,
For all in vain these superficial parts
Contribute to the Structure of the whole
Without a Genius too, for that's the Soul;
A Spirit which inspires the Work throughout,
As that of Nature moves the World about;
A Heat which glows in every word that's writ,
Tis something of Divine, and more than Wit;
It self unseen, yet all things by it shown,
Describing all Men, but describ'd by none.
Where dost thou dwell? What Caverns of the Brain
Can such a vast, and mighty thing, contain?
When I, at idle hours, in vain thy absence mourn,
O where dost thou retire? and why dost thou [...]eturn,
Sometimes with powerful Charms to hurry me away
From Pleasures of the Night, and Business of the Day?
Ev'n now too far transported, I am fain
To check thy Course, and use the needful Rein.
As all is Dullness, when the Fancy's bad,
So without Iudgment, Fancy is but mad;
And Judgment has a boundless Influence,
Not only in the choice of Words or Sence,
But on the World, on Manners, and on Men;
Fancy is but the Feather of the Pen;
Reason is that substantial useful part,
Which gains the Head, while t'other wins the Heart.
Here I should all the various sorts of Verse,
And the whole Art of Poetry rehearse,
But who that Task can after Horace do?
The best of Masters, and Examples too!
Ecchoes at best, all we can say is vain,
Dull the Design, and fruitless were the pain;
'Tis true, the Ancients we may rob with ease,
But who with that sad shift himself can please,
Without an Actor's pride? A Player's Art
Is above his, who writes a borrowed part.
Yet modern Laws are made for later Faults,
And new Absurdities inspire new Thoughts;
What need has Satyr then to live on, Theft
When so much fresh occasion still is le [...]t?
Fertile our Soil, and full of rankest Weeds,
And Monsters, worse than ever Nilus, breeds;
But hold, the Fools shall have no cause to fear,
'Tis Wit and Sense that is the Subject here.
Defects of witty Men deserve a Cure,
And those who are so, will ev'n this endure.
First then of SONGS,
Songs.
which now so much abound,
Without his Song no Fop is to be found,
A most offensive Weapon which he draws
On all he meets against Apollo's Laws:
Tho nothing seems more easie, yet no part
Of Poetry requires a nicer Art;
For as in rows of richest Pearl there lies
Many a Blemish that escapes our Eyes,
The least of which Defects is plainly shewn
In some small Ring, and brings the value down;
So Songs should be to just Perfection wrought;
Yet where can we see one without a fault;
Exact Propriety of Words and Thought?
Expression easie, and the Fancy high,
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly;
No Words transpos'd, but in such order all,
As, tho hard wrought, may seem by chance to fall.
Here, as in all things else, is most unfit
Bare Ribaldry, that poor Pretence to Wit;
Such nauseous Songs by a late Author made
Call an unwilling Censure on his Shade.
Not that warm Thoughts of the transporting Joy,
Can shock the chastest, or the nicest cloy;
But obscene Words, too gross to move Desire,
Like Heaps of Fewel do but choak the Fire.
On other Themes he well deserves our Praise,
But palls that Appetite he meant to raise.
Next, ELEGY,
Elegy.
of sweet, but solemn Voice,
And of a Subject grave exacts the Choice,
The Praise of Beauty, Valor, Wit contains,
And there too oft despairing Love complains:
In vain alas, for who by Wit is moved,
That Phoenix-she deserves to be beloved;
But noisy Nonsense, and such Fops as vex
Mankind, take most with that fantastick Sex.
This to the Praise of those who better knew;
The Many raise the Value of the Few.
But here, as all our Sex too oft have try'd,
Women have drawn my wandring Thoughts aside.
Their greatest Fault who in this kind have writ,
Is not Defect in Words, nor want of Wit;
But should this Muse harmonious Numbers yield,
And every Couplet be with Fancy fill'd,
If yet a just Coberence be not made
Between each Thought, and the whole Model laid
So right, that every step may higher rise,
Like goodly Mountains, till they reach the Skies;
Trifles like such perhaps of late have past,
And may be lik'd awhile, but never last;
'Tis Epigram, 'tis Point, 'tis what you will,
But not an Elegy, nor Writ with Skill,
No
Waller's.
Panegyrick, nor a
Denham's.
Coopers-Hill.
A higher Flight, and of a happier Force
Are
Pindarick Odes.
ODES, the Muses most unruly Horse;
That bounds so fierce, the Rider has no rest,
But foams at mouth, and moves like one possest.
The Poet here must be indeed inspired,
With Fury too, as well as Fancy fired.
Cowley might boast to have performed this part,
Had he with Nature joyn'd the Rules of Art;
But ill Expression gives sometimes Allay
To that rich Fancy, which can ne'er decay:
Tho all appear in Heat and Fury done,
The Language still must soft and easie run.
These Laws may seem a little too severe,
But Iudgment yields, and Fancy governs there;
Which, tho extravagant, this Muse allows,
And makes the Work much easier than it shews.
Satyr.
Of all the Ways that wisest Men could find
To mend the Age, and mortifie Mankind,
SATYR well writ has most successful prov'd,
And cures, because the Remedy is lov'd.
'Tis hard to write on such a Subject more,
Without repeating Things said oft before.
Some vulgar Errors only we remove,
That stain a Beauty which so much we love.
Of well chose Words some take not care enough,
And think they should be as the Subject rough;
This great Work must be more exactly made,
And sharpest Thoughts in smoothest Words convey'd:
Some think, if sharp enough, they cannot fail,
As if their only Business was to rail;
But human Frailty nicely to unfold,
Distinguishes a Satyr from a Scold.
Rage you must hide, and Prejudice lay down,
A Satyr's Smile is sharper than his Frown;
So, while you seem to slight some Rival Youth,
Malice it self may pass sometimes for Truth.
The
Mr. D—n.
Laureat here may justly claim our Praise,
Crown'd by
A famous Sa­tyrical Poem of his.
Mac-Fleckno with immortal Bays;
Tho prais'd and punish'd for another's
A Libel, for which he wa [...] both applaud­ed and wound­ed, tho intire­ly innocent of the whole matter.
Rhimes,
His own deserve as great Applause sometimes;
But once his Pegasus has born dead Weight,
Rid by some lumpish Minister of State.
Here rest, my Muse, suspend thy Cares a while,
A greater Enterprise attends thy Toil;
And as some Eagle that designs to fly
A long unwonted Journey through the Sky,
Considers all the dangerous way before,
Over what Lands and Seas she is to soar,
Doubts her own Strength so far, and justly fears
That lofty Road of Airy Travellers;
But yet incited by some fair Design,
That does her Hopes beyond her Fears incline,
Prunes every Feather, views her self with Care,
At last resolved, she cleaves the yielding Air,
Away she flies, so strong, so high, so fast,
She lessens to us, and is lost at last.
So (but too weak for such a weighty thing)
The Muse inspires a sharper Note to sing;
And why should Truth offend, when only told
To guide the Ignorant, and warn the Bold?
On then, my Muse, adventrously engage.
To give Instructions that concern the Stage.
Plays.
The Unities of Action, Time, and Place,
Which, if observed, give PLAYS so great a Grace,
Are, tho but little practis'd, too well known
To be taught here, where we pretend alone
From nicer Faults to purge the present Age,
Less obvious Errors of the English Stage.
First then, SOLILOQUIES had need be few,
Extremely short, and spoke in Passion too;
Our Lovers talking to themselves for want,
Of others, make the Pit their Confidant;
Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus
They trust a Friend, only to tell it us;
Th' occasion should as naturally fall,
As when
In Philaster, a Play of Beaumont and Fletcher.
Bellario confesses all.
FIGURES of Speech, which Poets think so fine,
Art's needless Varnish to make Nature shine,
Are all but Paint upon a beauteous Face,
And in Descriptions only claim a place.
But to make Rage declaim, and Grief discourse,
From Lovers in despair fine things to force,
Must needs succeed, for who can chuse but pity
A dying Hero miserably witty?
But, oh, the Dialogues, where jest, and mock
Is held up like a Rest at Shittle-cock!
Or else like Bells, eternally they chime,
They sigh in Simile, and die in Rhime.
What Things are these who would be, Poets thought,
By Nature not inspir'd, nor Learning taught?
Some Wit they have, and therefore may deserve
A better Course than this by which they starve:
But to write Plays! why 'tis a bold pretence
To Iudgment, Breeding, Wit and Eloquence;
Nay more; for they must look within to find
Those secret Turns of Nature in the mind;
Without this part in vain would be the whole,
And but a Body all without a Soul:
All this together yet is but a part
Of Dialogue, that great and powerful Art,
Now almost lost, which the old Grecians knew,
From whence the Romans fainter Copies drew,
Scarce comprehended since but by a few:
Plato and Lucian are the best Remains
Of all the Wonders which this Art contains;
Yet to our selves we Justice must allow,
Shakespear and Fletcher are the Wonders now:
Consider them, and read them o'er and o'er,
Go see them play'd, then read them as before,
For tho in many things they grosly fail,
Over our Passions still they so prevail,
That our own Grief by theirs is rock'd asleep,
The Dull are forc'd to feel, the wise to weep.
Their Beauties imitate, avoid their Faults;
First on a Plot employ thy careful Thoughts;
Turn it with time a thousand several Ways,
This oft alone has given success to Plays:
Reject that vulgar Error which appears
So fair, of making perfect Characters;
There's no such thing in Nature, and you [...]ll draw
A faultless Monster, which the World ne [...]er saw;
Some Faults must be, that his Misfortunes drew;
But such as may deserve Compassion too.
Besides the main Design composed with Art,
Each moving Scene must be a Plot apart;
Contrive each little turn, mark every place,
As Painters first chalk out the future Face;
Yet be not fondly your own Slave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amiss.
Think not so much where shining Thoughts to place,
As what a Man would say in such a Case.
Neither in Comedy will this suffice,
The Player too must be before your Eyes,
And tho 't [...]s Drudgery to stoop so low,
To him you must your utmost meaning show.
Expose no single Fop, but lay the Load
More equally, and spread the Folly broad;
The other way is vulgar, oft we see
A Fool derided by as bad as he;
Hawks fly at nobler Game; in this low way,
A very Owl may prove a Bird of Prey:
Ill Poets so will one poor Fop devour;
But to collect, like Bees from every Flower,
Ingredients to compose that precious Juice,
Which serves the World for Pleasure and for use,
In spight of Faction this would Favour get:
But
An admira­ble Character in a Play of Shakespear's.
Falstaff seems unimitable yet.
Another Fault which often does befall,
Is when the Wit of some great Poet shall
So overflow, that is, be none at all,
That all his Fools speak Sence, as if possest,
And each by Inspiration breaks his Jest;
If once the Iustness of each part be lost,
Well we may laugh, but at the Poets Cost.
That silly thing, Men call Sheer-Wit, avoid,
With which our Age so nauseously is cloy'd;
Humour is all, Wit should be only brought
To turn agreeably some proper Thought.
But since the Poets we of late have known,
Shine in no Dress so much as in their own,
The better by Example to convince,
Cast but a View on this wrong side of Sence.
First a Soliloquy is calmly made,
Where every Reason is exactly weigh'd;
Which once perform'd, most opportunely comes
A Hero frighted at the Noise of Drums
For her sweet sake, whom at first sight he loves;
And all in Metaphor his passion proves;
But some sad Accident, tho yet unknown,
Parting this Pair, to leave the Swain alone,
He streight grows jealous, yet we know not why,
And to oblige his Rival, needs will dye;
But first he makes a Speech, wherein he tells
The absent Nymph how much his Flame excels;
And yet bequeaths her generously now
To that dear Rival whom he does not know,
Who streight appears (but who can Fate withstand?)
Too late alas to hold his hasty Hand,
That just has giv'n himself the cruel Stroke,
At which this very Strangers Heart is broke;
He more to his new Friend than Mistress kind,
Most sadly mourns at being left behind,
Of such a Death prefers the pleasing Charms
To Love, and living in a Lady's Arms.
How shameful, and what monstrous things are these?
And then they rail at those they cannot please,
Conclude us only partial for the Dead,
And grudge the Sign of old Ben. Iohnson's Head;
When the intrinsick Value of the Stage
Can scarce be judg'd but by a following Age;
For Dances, Flutes, Italian Songs, and Rhime
May keep up sinking Nonsense for a time.
But that may fail, which now so much o'er-rules,
And Sence no longer will submit to Fools.
By painful Steps we are at last got up
Parnassus Hill, on whose bright Airy Top
The Epick Poets
Epick Poetry.
so divinely show,
And with just Pride behold the rest below.
Heroick Poems have a just pretence
To be the utmost reach of human Sence,
A Work of such inestimable Wor [...],
There are but two the World has yet brought forth,
Homer, and Virgil: with what awful sound
Do those meer words the Ears of Poets wound!
Just as a Changeling seems below the rest
Of Men, or rather is a two-legg'd Beast,
So these Gigantick Souls amaz'd we find
As much above the rest of human kind.
Natures whole strength united! endless Fame,
And universal Shouts attend their Name.
Read Homer once, and you can read no more,
For all things else appear so dull and poor,
Verse will seem Prose, yet often on him look,
And you will hardly need another Book.
Had
A late Au­thor.
Bossu never writ, the World had still,
Like Indians, view'd this wondrous Piece of Skill,
As something of Divine the Work admired,
Not hoped to be Instructed, but Inspired;
But he disclosing sacred Mysteries,
Has shewn where all the mighty Magick lies,
Describ'd the Seeds, and in what order sown,
That have to such a vast proportion grown;
Sure from some Angel he the Secret knew,
Who through this Labyrinth has given the Clue!
But what, alas, avails it poor Mankind
To see this promised Land, yet stay behind?
The Way is shewn, but who has Strength to go?
Who can all Sciences exactly know?
Whose Fancy flies beyond weak Reason's Sight,
And yet has Iudgment to direct it right?
Whose just Discernment, Virgil-like, is such,
Never to say too little, or too much?
Let such a Man begin without delay,
But he must do much more than I can say,
Must above Cowley, nay and Milton too prevail,
Succeed where great Torquato, and our greater Spencer fail.
The END.
AN EPISTLE TO THE Ri …

AN EPISTLE TO THE Right Honourable CHARLES EARL of DORSET and MIDDLESEX, Lord Chamberlain OF HIS Majesties Houshold. Occasion'd by His Majesty's VICTORY in IRELAND.

LICENSED, Sept. 26.

The Second Edition Corrected.

LONDON, Printed for Francis Saunders, at the Blue Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange, 1690.

AN EPISTLE TO MY Lord Chamberlain.

WHat? Shall the KING the Nations Genius raise,
And make us Rival our great Edward's Days;
Yet not one Muse, worthy a Conq'ror's Name,
Attend his Triumphs, and Record his Fame!
Oh, Dorset! You alone this Fault can mend,
The Muses Darling, Confident, and Friend?
The Poets are your Charge, and, if unfit,
You should be fin'd to furnish abler Wit;
Oblig'd to quit your Ease, and draw agen,
To paint the Greatest Heroe, the Best Pen.
A Heroe, who thus early does out-shine
The Ancient Honours of his Glorious Line;
And, soaring more sublimely to Renown,
The Mem'ry of their pious Triumphs drown:
Whose Actions are deliver'd o'er to Fame,
As Types, and Figures of His greater Name.
When Fate some mighty Genius has design'd,
For the Relief, and Wonder of Mankind,
Nature takes Time to answer the Intent,
And climbs, by slow Degrees, the steep Ascent:
She toils, and labours with the growing Weight,
And watches carefully the Steps of Fate;
Till all the Seeds of Providence unite,
To set the Heroe in a happy Light;
Then, in a lucky and propitious Hour,
Exerts her Force, and calls forth all her Pow'r.
In Nassam's Race she made this long Essay;
Heroes and Patriots prepar'd the Way,
And promis'd, in their Dawn, this brighter Day:
A Publick Sp'rit distinguish'd all the Line;
Successive Vertues in each Branch did shine,
Till this last Glory rose, and Crown'd the Great Design.
Blest be his Name! and peaceful lie his Grave,
Who durst his Native Soil, lost Holland, save!
But William's Genius takes a wider Scope,
And gives the injur'd, in all Kingdoms, Hope:
Born to subdue insulting Tyrants Rage,
The Ornament, and Terrour, of the Age;
The Refuge, where afflicted Nations find,
Relief from those, Oppressors of Mankind,
Whom Laws restrain not, and no Oaths can bind.
Him, their Deliv'rer Europe does confess,
All Tongues extol, and all Religions bless;
The Po, the Danube, Boetis, and the Rhine,
United in his Praise, their Wonder join:
While, in the Publick Cause, he takes the Field,
And shelter'd Nations fight behind his Shield.
His Foes themselves dare not Applause refuse:
And shall such Actions want a faithful Muse?
Poets have this to boast; Without their Aid,
The freshest Lawrels, nipp'd by Malice, fade,
And Vertue to Oblivion is betray'd:
The proudest Honours have a narrow Date,
Unless they vindicate their Names from Fate.
But who is equal to sustain the Part!
D—n has Numbers: But he wants a Heart;
Enjoyn'd a Penance (which is too severe
For playing once the Fool) to Persevere.
Others, who knew the Trade, have laid it down;
And, looking round, I find you stand alone.
How, Sir! can you, or any English Muse,
Our Countrey's Fame, our Monarch's Arms, refuse?
'Tis not my Want of Gratitude, but Skill,
Makes me decline what I can ne'er fulfill:
I cannot sing of Conquests, as I ought,
And my Breath fails to swell a lofty Note.
I know my Compass, and my Muse's Size,
She loves to Sport and Play, but dares not Rise;
Idly affects, in this Familiar Way,
In easie Numbers loosely to convey,
What Mutual Friendship wou'd at Distance say.
Poets assume another Tone and Voice,
When Victory's their Theam, and Arms their Choice.
To follow Heroes, in the Chace of Fame,
Asks Force, and Heat, and Fancy wing'd with Flame.
What VVords can paint the Royal VVarrior's Face?
What Colours can the Figure boldly raise?
When cover'd o'er with comely Dust and Smoke,
He pierc'd the Foe, and thickest Squadrons broke?
His bleeding Arm, still painful with the Sore,
Which, in his Peoples Cause, the Pious Father bore:
VVhom, cleaving through the Troops a Glorious VVay,
Not the united Force of France, and Hell, cou'd stay.
Oh, Dorset! I am rais'd! [...] I'm all on fire!
And, if my Strength could answer my Desire,
In speaking Paint this Figure should be seen,
Like Iove his Grandeur, and like Mars his Mien;
And Gods descending should adorn the Scene.
See, See! Upon the Bank of Boyne he stands,
By his own View adjusting his Commands;
Calm and serene the Armed Coast surveys,
And, in cool Thoughts, the diff'rent Chances weighs:
Then, fir'd with Fame, and eager of Renown,
Resolves to end the War, and fix the Throne.
From Wing to Wing the Squadrons bending stand,
And close their Ranks to meet their King's Command;
The Drums and Trumpets sleep, the sprightly Noise
Of neighing Steeds, and Cannons louder Voice,
Suspended in Attention, banish far
All Hostile [...] Sounds, and hush the Dinn of War:
The silent Troops stretch forth an eager Look,
List'ning with Joy, while thus their Gen'ral spoke.
*Come, Fellow-Soldiers, Follow me once more,
And fix the Fate of Europe on that Shore;
Your Courage only waits from me the Word,
But England's Happiness commands my Sword:
In her Defence I ev'ry Part will bear,
The Soldier's Danger, and the Prince's Care,
And envy any Arm an equal Share.
Set all that's dear to Men before your Sight,
For Laws, Religion, Liberty, we fight;
To save your Wives from Rape, your Towns from Flame,
Redeem your Country sold, and vindicate her Name:
At whose Request and timely Call I rose,
To tempt my Fate, and all my Hopes expose;
Struggled with adverse Srorms, and Winter-Seas,
That in my Labours you might find your Ease.
Let other Monarchs dictate from afar,
And write the empty Triumphs of their War,
In lazy Palaces supinely Rust;
My Sword shall justifie my Peoples Trust.
For which—But I your Victory delay;
Come on, I, and my Genius lead the way.
He said. New Life and Joy ran through the Host,
And sense of Danger in their Wonder lost;
Precipitate they plunge into the Flood,
In vain the Waves, the Banks, the Men, withstood.
The KING leads on, the KING does all inflame,
The KING—and carries Millions in the Name.
As when the swelling Ocean bursts his Bounds,
And, foaming, overwhelms the neighb'ring Grounds,
The roaring Deluge, rushing headlong on,
Sweeps Cities in its Course, and bears whole Forests down
So on the Foe the firm Battalions prest,
And He, like the Tenth Wave, drove on the rest;
Fierce, Gallant, Young, He shot thrô ev'ry Place,
Urging their Flight, and hurrying on the Chace,
He hung upon their Rear, or lighten'd in their Face.
Stop! stop! brave Prince! Allay that Gen'rous Flame,
Enough is given to England, and to Fame.
Remember, Sir, you in the Centre stand,
Europe's divided Int'rests you command,
All their Designs uniting in your hand:
Down from your Throne descends the Golden Chain,
Which does the Fabrick of our World sustain;
That once dissolv'd by any Fatal Stroke,
The Scheme of all our Happiness is broke.
Stop! stop! brave Prince! Fleets may repair again,
And routed Armies rally on the Plain,
But Ages are requir'd to raise so Great a Man!
Hear, how the Waves of French Ambition roar,
Disdaining Bounds, and breaking on the Shore,
Which You ordain'd to curb their wild-destructive Pow'r,
That Strength remov'd; Again, Again, they flow,
Lay Europe waste, nor Laws, nor Limits know.
Stop! stop! brave Prince!—what does your Muse, Sir, faint?
Proceed, Pursue his Conquests—Faith, I can't:
My Spirits sink, and will no longer bear;
Rapture and Fury carry'd me thus far
Transported and Amaz'd
That Rage once spent, I can no more sustain
Your Flights, your Energies, and Tragic Strain,
But fall back to my Nat'ral Pace again;
In humble Verse provoking you to Rhime,
Iwish there were more Dorsets at this Time.
Oh! if in France this Heroe had been born;
What Glittering Tinsel wou'd His Acts adorn!
There 'tis Immortal Fame, and High Renown,
To Steal a Country, and to Buy a Town:
Their Triumphs are o'er Kings and Kingdoms sold,
And Captive Vertue led in Chains of Gold.
If Courage cou'd, like Courts, be kept in Pay,
What Summs wou'd Lovis give, That France might say,
That Victory follow'd where He led the Way?
He all his Conquests wou'd for this refound,
And take th' Equivalent, a Glorious Wound.
Then, what Advice, to spread his real Fame,
Wou'd pass between Versailles and No'tredame?
Their Plays, their Songs, wou'd dwell upon his Wound,
And Opera's repeat no other Sound;
Boyne wou'd, for Ages, be the Painter's Theam,
The Goblin's Labour, and the Poet's Dream;
The wounded Arm wou'd furnish all their Rooms,
And bleed for ever Scarlet in the Looms:
Boileau with this wou'd plume his Artful Pen.
And can your Muse be silent? Think agen.
Spare your Advice; And since you have begun,
Finish your own Design, the Work is done.
Done! Nothing's Done: Not the Dead Colours laid,
And the most Glorious Scenes stand undisplay'd.
A Thousand Gen'rous Actions close the Rear;
A Thousand Vertues, still behind, stand crowding to appear.
The QUEEN her self, the charming QUEEN shou'd grace
The Noble Piece, and, in an Artful Place,
Sof [...]n War's Horror with her lovely Face.
Who can omit the QUEEN [...]S auspicious Smile,
The Pride of the Fair Sex, the Goddess of our Isle?
Who can forget, what all admir'd of late,
Her Fears for Him, her Prudence for the State?
Dissembling Cares, she smooth'd her Looks with Grace,
Doubts in her Heart, and Pleasure in her Face.
As Danger did approach, her Spirits rose,
And, putting on the King, dismay'd his Foes.
Now, all in Joy, she gilds the chearful Court,
In ev'ry Glance descending Angels sport.
As on the Hills of Cynthus, or the Meads
Of cool Eurotas, when Diana leads
The Chorus of her Nymphs, who there advance
A Thousand shining Maids, and form the Dance:
The stately Goddess, with a graceful Pride,
Sweet and Majestic, does the Figure guide;
Treading in just and easie Measures round
The silver Arrows on her Shoulder sound)
She walks above them All. Such is the Scene
Of the Bright Circle, and the Brighter QUEEN.
These Subjects do, my Lord, your Skill command,
These none may touch with an Unhollow'd Hand:
Tender the Stroaks must be, and nicely writ,
Disguis'd Encomiums must be hid in Wit,
Which Modesty, like theirs, will e'er admit;
Who made no other Steps to such a Throne,
But to Deserve, and to Receive, the Crown.
AN EPISTLE TO Charle …

AN EPISTLE TO Charles Montague Esq ON His MAJESTY's VOYAGE TO HOLLAND.

BY Mr. GEORGE STEPNEY.

LICENSED

Ian. 31. 1690/1
J. Fraser.

LONDON, Printed for Francis Saunders, at the Blue Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange, 1691.

AN EPISTLE TO Charles Montague Esq.

SIR,
SInce you oft invite me to renew
An Art I've either lost, or never knew,
Pleas'd my past follies kindly to commend,
And fondly lose the Critick in the Friend;
Thô my warm Youth untimely be decay'd,
From Grave to Dull insensibly betray'd,
I'll contradict the Humour of the Times,
(Inclin'd to bus'ness, and averse to Rhimes)
And to obey the Man I love, in spight
Of the World's Genius, and my own, I'll write.
But think not that I vainly do aspire
To Rival what I only wou'd Admire,
The Heat and Beauty of your manly thought,
And Force like that with which your Heroe fought.
Like Sampson's Riddle is that powerful Song,
Sweet as the Honey, as the Lyon strong;
The Colours there so artf [...]y are laid,
They fear no Lustre, and they want no Shade,
But shall of writing a just model give,
While Boyne shall flow, and William's Glory live.
Yet since his ev'ry Act may well infuse
Some happy Rapture in the humblest Muse,
Thô mine despairs to reach the wondrous height,
She prunes her pinnions, eager of the flight;
The King's the Theme, and I've a Subject's Right:
When William's Deeds, and rescu'd Europe's Joy
Do ev'ry Tongue and ev'ry Pen employ,
Tis to think Treason sure to shew no Zeal,
And not to Write is almost to Rebel.
Let Albion then forgive her Meanest Son,
Who wou'd continue what her Best begun;
Who, leaving Conquests and the Pomp of War,
Wou'd sing the pious King's divided Care;
How eagerly he flew when Europe's Fate
Did for the Seeds of future Actions wait;
And how two Nations did with Transport boast
Which was belov'd, and lov'd the Victor most:
How joyful Belgia gratefully prepar'd
Trophies and Vows for her returning Lord;
How the Fair Isle with rival passion strove,
How by her Sorrow she exprest her Love,
When He withdrew from what his Arm had free'd,
And how she blest his way, yet sigh'd, and said,
Is it decree'd my Heroe ne'er shall rest,
Ne'er be of me, and I of him possest?
Scarce had I met his Vertue with my Throne,
(By Right, by Merit, and by Arms his own)
But Ireland's freedom and the Wars alarms
Call'd him from me and his Maria's Charms.
Oh gen'rous Prince! too prodigally kind,
Can the diffusive Goodness of your Mind
Be in no bounds, but of the World, confin'd?
Shou'd sinking Nations summon You away,
Maria's Love might justifie Your stay.
Imperfectly the many Vows are paid,
Which for your Safety to the Gods were made,
While, on the Boyne, they labour'd to out-do
Your Zeal for Albion by their Care for You;
When too impatient of a glorious Ease,
You tempt new Dangers on the Winter-Seas.
The Belgick State has rested long secure
Within the Circle of thy Guardian Power;
Rear'd by thy care that noble Lyon, grown
Mature in strength, can range the Woods Alone:
When to my Arms they did the Prince resign,
I blest the Change, and thought Him wholly mine;
Conceiv'd Long hopes I jointly shou'd obey
His stronger, and Maria's gentle Sway,
He fierce as Thunder, she as Lightning bright;
One my Defence, and t'other my Delight.
Yet go—where Honour calls the Heroe, go;
Nor let your eyes behold how mine do flow;
Go, meet your Country's joy, your Vertue's due,
Receive their Triumphs, and prepare for new;
Inlarge my Empire, and let France afford
The next large Harvest to thy prosp'rous Sword;
Again in Crecy let my Arms be rear'd,
And o'er the Continent Britannia fear'd;
While under Mary's tutelary Care,
Far from the Danger, or the Noise of War,
In honourable Pleasure I possess
The Spoils of Conquest, and the Charms of Peace.
As the Great Lamp by which the Globe is blest,
Constant in toil, and ignorant of rest,
Thrô diff'rent Regions does his Course pursue,
And leaves one World but to revive a new;
While, by a pleasing Change [...]he Queen of Night
Relieves his Lustre with a mi [...]er Light:
So when your Beams do distant Nations chear,
The Partner of your Crown shall mount the Sphere,
Able Alone my Empire to sustain,
And carry on the Glories of thy Reign—
But why has fate maliciously decree'd,
That greatest blessings must by turns succeed?
Here she relented, and would urge his stay
By all that fondness and that grief could say;
But soon did her presaging thoughts employ
On Scenes of Triumphs and returning Joy:
Thus, like the Tide, while her unconstant brest
Was swell'd with Rapture, by Despair deprest,
Fate call'd; The Heroe must his way pursue,
And her cries lessen'd as the shore withdrew.
The Winds were silent, and the Gentle Main
Bore an Auspicious Omen of his Reign,
When Neptune, owning whom those Seas obey,
Nodded, and bad the chearful Tritons play.
Each chose a diff'rent Subject for their Lays,
But Orange was the Burthen of their Praise:
Some in their strains up to [...] Fountain run,
From whence this stream of Vertue first begun;
Others chose Heroes of a later date,
And sung the
William [...]
Founder of the neighb'ring State,
How daringly he Tyranny withstood,
And seal'd his Country's freedom with his Blood.
Then to the two illustrious
Maurice and Henry.
Brethren came,
The glorious Rivals of their Father's Fame:
And to the
William.
Youth, whose pregnant hopes out-ran
The steps of Time, and early shew'd the Man,
For whose Alliance Monarchs did contend,
And gave a Daughter to secure a Friend.
But as, by Nature's Law, the Phoenix dies,
That from its Urn a Nobler Bird may rise,
So fate ordain'd the Parent soon shou'd set
To make the Glories of
His present Majesty.
his Heir compleat.
At William's Name each fill'd his vocal shell,
And on the happy Sound rejoic'd to dwell;
Some sung his Birth, and how discerning Fate
Sav'd Infant Vertue against powerful hate,
Of pois'nous Snakes by young Alcides quell'd,
And Palms that spread the more, the more with-held.
Some sung Seneffe, and early Wonders done
By the bold Youth, Himself a War Alone;
And how his firmer Courage did oppose
His Country's foreign and intestine Foes,
The Lion He who held their Arrows close [...]
Others sung Perseus, and the injur'd Maid,
Redeem'd by the wing'd Warrior's timely Aid;
Or in mysterious Numbers did unfold
Sad modern truths wrapt up in tales of old,
How Saturn, flush'd with Arbitrary Power,
Design'd his Lawful Issue to devour,
But Iove, (reserv'd for better fate) withstood
The black Contrivance of the doating God;
With Arms he came, His guilty Father fled,
('Twas Italy secur'd his frighted Head)
And by his Flight resign'd his empty Throne
And Tripple Empire to his Worthier Son.
Then in one note their Artful force they joyn,
Eager to reach the Victor and the Boyne;
How on the wond'ring Bank the Heroe stood,
Lavishly bold and desperately Good;
Till fate, designing to convince the Brave
That they can dare no more than Heav'n can save,
Let Death approach, and yet with-held the sting,
Wounded the Man, distinguishing the King.
They had inlarg'd, but found the strain too strong,
And in soft notes allay'd the bolder Song:
Flow, gentle Boyne, (they cry'd) and round thy Bed
For ever may victorious Wreaths be spread;
No more may Travellers desire to know
Where Simois and Granicus did flow;
Nor Rubicon, a poor forgotten Stream,
Be, or the Soldiers rant, or Poet's theme;
All Waters shall unite their Fame in Thee,
Lost in thy Waves as those are in the Sea.
They breath'd afresh, unwilling to give o'er;
And begg'd thick mists long to conceal the shore;
Smooth was the Liquid Plain; the sleeping Wind,
More to the Sea, than to its Master, kind,
Detain'd a Treasure, which we value more
Than All the Deep e're hid, or Waters bore.
But He, with a Superior Genius born,
Treats Chance with Insolence, and Death with Scorn,
Darkness and Ice in vain obstruct his way,
Holland is near, and Nature must obey;
Charg'd with our hopes the Boat Securely rode,
For Caesar and His Fortune were the Load.
With eager transport Belgia met her Son,
Yet trembling for the danger [...] He had run;
Till, certain of her Joy, she bow'd her Head,
Confest her Lord, blest his return, and said,
If Passion by long Absence does improve,
And makes that Rapture which before was Love,
Think on my old, my intermitted bliss,
And by my former pleasure measure this;
Not by these feeble Pillars which I raise,
Unequal to sustain the Heroe's praise,
Too faint the Colours, and too mean the Art
To represent Your Glories, or my Heart:
These humble Emblems are design'd to show,
Not how we wou'd Reward, but what we Owe.
Here from your Childhood take a short review
How Holland's happiness advanc'd with you;
How her stout Vessel did in Triumph ride,
And mock'd the storms, while Orange was her Guide.
What since has been our Fate—I need not say,
(Ill suiting with the blessings of the day.)
Our better fortune with our Prince was gone,
Conquest was only there where He led on.
Like the Palladium, wheresoe'er you go
You turn all Death and Danger on the Foe.
In you we but too sadly understood
How Angels have their Spheres of doing good,
Else the same Soul which did your Troops possess,
And Crown'd their daring Courage with Success,
Had taught our Fleet to triumph o'er the Main,
And Fleurus had been still a guiltless Plain.
What pity 'tis, ye Gods! an arm and mind
Like Yours, shou'd be to time and place confin'd?
But Thy return shall fix our kinder fate,
For Thee our Councils, Thee our Armies wait;
Discording Princes shall with Thee combine,
And center all their Interests in Thine;
Prouud of Thy friendship, shall forego their sway,
As Rome Her great Dictator did obey;
And all united make a Gordian knot,
Which neither Craft shall loose, nor Force shall cut.
AN EPISTLE TO Monsie …

AN EPISTLE TO Monsieur Boileau, Inviting his MUSE to forsake the FRENCH INTEREST, And celebrate the KING of ENGLAND.

BY EDM. ARWAKER.

LICENSED.

Novemb. 9. 1694.
D. POPLAR

LONDON, Printed by Tho. Warren for Francis Saunders, at the Blue Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange, 1694.

AN EPISTLE TO Monsieur Boileau.

TOO long, Great Man, thy Muse has try'd in vain,
Thy Monarch's sinking Credit to sustain;
And thou too long hast mis-employ'd thy Pen,
To make the worst appear the best of Men;
A sullied Fame to brighten and refine,
That never did with real Lustre shine.
While, as one, flatter'd by too fair a Glass,
Views but the wanted Beauties of his Face;
So Lewis, in thy lofty Praise does see
Not what he is, but what he wants to be.
And he must all his boasted Glories own,
Not from himself deriv'd, but thee alone;
Whose Muse so well does his mean Deeds reherse,
That he becomes Immortal in thy Verse;
But to thy Verse no lasting Fame can give,
In recompence for what he does receive.
Leave, leave him then to raise his own Renown,
And win the Laurels that his Temples crown:
A better Cause, and nobler Subject chuse,
That may inspire, as it employs, thy Muse;
May with thy elevated Sense agree,
And copious as thy boundless Fancy be;
A Hero, whose bright Fame may gild thy Bays,
And more thy Name, than thou his Glory raise.
See, see, his Conq'ring Sword great Nassaw draws;
Not poorly bribes, but merits thy Applause:
His brave Exploits afford thy Muse a Theme
Equal to that, as that is worthy them.
The Titles he, in Fame's Records does hold,
Are purchas'd by his Valour, not his Gold.
He owes his Glory to himself alone,
And Acquisition makes it all his own.
Whilst Lewis rarely does in Arms appear,
Nor then to fight, but follow in the Rear:
Our Monarch charging in the Front we see;
None more expos'd, none less concern'd than he.
Who lets his Soldiers on no Dangers go,
But what, as he commands, he leads them to:
Thus, taught by his Example to obey,
They bravely follow, as he shews the Way.
Not so your King; he still declines the Fight,
Nor shuns the Danger only, but its Sight;
Yet with unmerited Success grown vain,
He boasts of Conquests he did never gain.
His Breaches were from Golden Batt'ries made,
And our lost Towns not taken, but betray'd.
Thus when some Place by Purchace is made sure,
His Person, and his Honour too, secure,
Then the triumphant Monarch takes the Field,
And gains the Town that waited so to yield.
This makes him with affected Greatness swell,
And boast his Arms as irresistible;
His Arches are by such Atchievements rear'd:
Thus Lewis fights, and thus is to be fear'd.
But since he finds the Scene is alter'd now,
And that his Treasure, as his Courage, low,
Will not the old prevailing Means afford,
That more enlarg'd his Conquests, than his Sword,
He forms no hopeless Siege, makes no Campaigne,
From which he knows he shall no Honour gain:
But to the Field has wisely sent his Son,
To bear the blame of losing what he won;
For all the Conquest he this Year can boast,
Is that in Running his Success was most [...]
While Huy's reduc'd to serve its Native Lord;
Not as 'twas lost, but storm'd with Fi [...] Sword;
Which proves as irresistible a Pow'r [...]
In English Courage, as French Gold [...];
And that our KING all Con [...] despise,
Which any Price but glorious Danger [...].
Now the French Army, whose [...]vn we knew
More to its Numbers than its Brav'ry [...]ue;
Equall'd in Strength, in Valour is out [...]ne,
And while Huy falls, stands tamely loo [...]ing on:
So by Great William's conqu'ring Arms dismay'd,
The Gen'rals durst not venture to its Aid:
Happy they could their own Intrenchments keep,
Though dug, to suit their low-sunk Spirits, deep.
Yet scarce they lost their Appehension there,
Nor as from Danger, were secur'd from Fear.
Till they, for greater Safety, left the Place
Not loaden now with Trophies, but Disgrace;
Such Conquests Lewis this Campaigne has won,
Such Triumphs Fate decreed his glorious Son.
But since no Honours from the barren Field
He reaps, what Laurels did the Ocean yield?
That sure his ruin'd Credit will repair,
And own his long-pretended Power there.
But as if both the Elements agreed
From his usurp'd Dominion to be freed,
The Sea no longer Tribute does afford,
But justly pays it to the ancient Lord.
Whose conqu'ring Fleets assert their native Right,
While the French Navy shuns the dreaded Sight.
And sees it self in its own Ports confin'd,
By Fear more pow'rful than an adverse Wind.
So when the scaly Sov'reign of the Seas,
Himself within his liquid Realm does please,
And with swift Finns ranges the briny Flood:
To take his Pastime there; or seek his Food.
His frightned Vassals hide their shining Heads,
In the kind Covert of concealing Weeds.
Our floating Squadrons now their Right regain,
And unobstructed wanton through the Main,
Insult the Gallick Coasts, and their just Rage
With Sacrifice of flaming Towns asswage:
Whose sable Smoak ascending to the Sky,
Mourns for the Structures that in Ashes [...]ly.
While strange Confusion spread along the Shore,
Makes England's Pow'r rever'd as heretofore.
Nor does one Fleet alone her Fame advance,
The Joys in Spain equal the Fears in France.
And Barcellona all Attempts defies,
While on our Monarch's Succour she relies,
And shelter'd by his Navy's spreading Wings,
She triumphs in the sure Defence it brings.
Thus Spain by our Elisa shook before,
Is now supported by Great William's Pow'r.
Then in his Praises let fam'd Boileau join,
And to his Side, like Victory, incline:
Whose daring Soul, and ever-conqu'ring Sword
Will endless Matter for thy Verse afford:
But if thou wilt a servile Labour chuse,
Where Arbitrary Pow'r enslaves thy Muse;
And does thy Thoughts to narrow Bounds confine,
Which Heav'n for boundless Subjects did design:
Know, our fam'd Prince can his own Trophies raise,
And courts as little as he wants thy Praise.
Nor, if such Means his Glory could advance,
Wou'd he have need to be oblig'd to France:
Since his own Realms abound with Men of Sence,
And famous for Poetick Excellence.
Whose lofty Verse your humble Strain exceeds,
As much as his your meaner Patron's Deeds.
Witness the Muse that first in Songs Divine,
Describ'd his Fight and Conquest at the Boyne.
That which most pleas'd, was difficult to tell,
The Field so bravely won, or sung so well.
Witness that happy Pen that did relate
His glorious Voyage to the Belgick State;
And gave the World a Proof with how much Fire
Our Poets write when them our Kings inspire.
But our Great Monarch's Praises shou'd no more,
Than his large Soul be bounded by our Shore;
Far as his Victories, his spreading Fame shou'd sound,
And be in every Tongue, as every Land renown'd;
Then, Boileau, let thy Muse begin her lofty Flight,
Tho' she must still despair to reach the wondrous Height.
FINIS.
A POEM ON THE LATE P …

A POEM ON THE LATE PROMOTION OF SEVERAL Eminent Persons IN CHURCH and STATE.

By N. TATE, Servant to Their Majesties.

—Magnum mihi panditur aequor,
Ipsaque Pierios lassant Proclivia Currus
LAVDIBVS innumeris.—

Claud.

LONDON; Printed for Richard Baldwin, near the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-Lane. 1694.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES EARL of Dorset and Middlesex; Lord Cham­berlain of Their Majesties Houshold, &c.

MY LORD,
WITH conscious Fear my Muse approaches You,
Wit's ablest Iudge, and best Example too.
In Modesty your sight she should decline;
The only Barren Thing on which You shine!
To Your's Aspiring, and her Countrey's Praise,
Deserting Strength her ripe Design betrays.
Yet see how Duty, with resistless Spells,
To fresh Attempts a Loyal Heart Compels!
Since Britain's Worthies their just Orbs sustain,
And loud Applause resounds from ev'ry Plain;
Our British Bards the only silent Throng;
Rage hurry'd me on this advent [...]rous Song.
But oh! my Zeal forgot such Themes requir'd,
The Force and Fury of a Breast Inspir'd.
Yet these weak Streins may to a Nobler Flight
Provoke those Muses whom they can't invite.
To Them shall, safely, Fame these Figures trust,
Whose Lustre is in my dead Colours lost.
How warmly They each Character shall trace,
Set off with proper Lights and Native Grace!
Then higher Soar, and urging their Success,
Our great Augustus Court to life express;
In which Illustrious Sphere, with Forms Divine,
Shall our Agrippa and Mecaenas Shine.
That Work commenc'd, how pleas'd shall I Retire!
And at just Distance silently Admire;
Content and Proud the Skilful to have mov'd,
And see my rude Design so well improv'd.
Ev'n so blind Chance, the Art of Musick found,
A rusling Wind amongst the Reeds did sound;
That Noise Instructed Shepherds first to Frame
The Tuneful Pipe, that Since gave Shepherds Fame.

A POEM ON THE Late Promotions, &c.

AS Joyful Nature, who till then lay mute,
Did the first Sun's exalted Beams salute;
So Britain, rescu'd from the sullen Cloud
That seem'd her new-created Face to shrowd,
Beholds, at once Transported and Amaz'd,
To proper Spheres her Brightest Planets rais'd.
Our Monarch, who best knew their Use and Pow'r,
Reserv'd their Influence for the Prosp'rous Hour:
Whose Aspects now a strong Direction joins,
When Tyranizing Saturn's Course declines.
Thus Kings, whose Actions are to Heav'n ally'd,
Like Providence, by Time are justify'd.
Easy at Home their Task, when Peace combines
With Pious Kings, and favours their Designs:
Ours, prest with War, and sinking Europe's Weight,
Finds Leisure to Adorn our CHURCH and STATE.
NOW, like the Visionary Matron, rears
Eusebia her calm Forehead crown'd with tears.
O'rejoy'd her Consecrated Sons appear,
(Those Sons that hold their Mother's Honour dear)
To see the Past'ral Chair by Him supply'd,
For whom the Voice of Angels would decide.
In his Promotion Vice her Downfal read,
She rav'd to find the MITRE on that Head:
Her Venom swell'd to see, of Piety
So Charming an Example plac'd so High;
Whose Influence, her Fears presag'd, wou'd make
The Age reform, and her dark Empire shake.
Preferment sought Him, (Worthless Spir'ts intrude,
But Modest Merit must by Kings be woo'd.)
He, slow consenting, to the Temple's Sway
Aspir'd not, but did Caesar's Will Obey.
While Caesar did, who only could, prescribe,
He in meer Duty Rules the Sacred Tribe.
His Moderation, Charity Divine,
Led to this Choice our Gen'rous Constantine.
Whose Genius, while the CROSIER there he plac'd,
His own Hereditary Virtues grac'd.
Whose Clemency mistaken Zeal does spare,
To Conscience, Tender; as to Crimes, Severe.
Caesar, these Charms can only Thrones sustain,
And you in These without a Rival Reign.
O Friend of Nations! None you hold for Foes,
Except the Troublers of the World's Repose.
Just is your Rage; oh! may as Just Success
Attend Your Arms, till You Mankind redress:
Till har [...]as'd Europe safe at Rest is laid,
As slept first Mortals in their Sylvan shade.
The Muse, her Visit to the Temple paid,
Comes forth, where Peals of Joy her Ear invade.
What charming Pomp such Transports can create?
Lo! SOMMERS with the Emblems of his State!
How justly, Heaven, are now those Trophies born
Before such Worth, in suitable Return,
Adorning Him, who Britain do's adorn!
A Poet's Genius should be all on Fire;
What Extasies should his rais'd Soul inspire?
When Crouds, at Sight of Him, can Rapture feel;
See how they press to Gaze, and load his Chariot-wheel!
To fetter'd Numbers how shall be confin'd
The compass of His Comprehensive Mind!
Sense, Reason, Musick, in his Language throng,
The Graces sit Assembled on his Tongue;
Whose Accents ev'n the flying Winds surprize,
Who watch their Birth, and bear 'em to the Skies.
The Muses, who severer Arts profess,
By Him are Cherish'd, ne'er deny'd Access:
Only the Idle, and the Singing Crew,
Chid from his Presence, long long since withdrew.
In Youth, their Lawrels at his Feet they laid,
To Court Him, all their Syren-Charms display'd;
Which like Ulysses wisely He contemn'd,
And, Tacking off, the Tide of Business stemm'd.
'Twould beggar Thought and Language both, to raise
The full proportion'd Tribute of his Praise.
Whom, through all Provinces of Learning crown'd,
Transcendent Virtues render more renown'd.
Justice do's, visible, from Heav'n repair;
Unveil'd she comes, and takes with Him the Chair.
When him on the relieving Bench you see,
Without a Trope, say,—There sits EQUITY.
Next, were my Strength proportion'd to my Zeal,
I'd sing the Guardian of the Privy-Seal.
On PEMBROOK, what can Court or State confer
Beyond his Knowledge, or his Virtue's Sphere?
Who, like the Sun, the higher he ascends,
But further warms, and more his Beams extends.
In Private Actions, as in Publick Trust,
To Honour's Scheme so regularly just;
That his whole Soul but seems a Model fram'd
By those rare Arts in which his Skill is fam'd.
Whose Judgment the best Pencil can direct;
In Symetry instruct the Architect.
Whose Rays can Light to Time's dark Relicts give,
And from the Grave Antiquity retrieve.
O Sacred Faculty! whose Pow'r transcends
Life's Territories, and the Dead befriends.
Blest Genius! who Past Ages can renew,
And Ours transmit to All that shall ensue.
Who ev'ry Science, and so early, gain'd,
As Heav'n Inspir'd, not Industry Obtain'd.
Vast Ocean, that from ev'ry Channel draws,
From Statesmen, Schools, Divine and Human Laws.
To Worth deprest, and injur'd Right, his Ear
Is ever open, and his Heart sincere.
O Piety! O Truth without a Stain!
Reserv'd by Heav'n for William's Sacred Reign.
When Nature in the Body does maintain
Free intercourse between the Heart and Brain,
The Veins with Vital Spirits are supply'd,
And briskly circulates the Sanguine Tide:
Each vig'rous Limb, ungriev'd, its Labour bears,
And Joy Triumphant in the Face appears;
So Healthful, so Transported, looks the Realm,
Where SHREWSBURY and TRENCHARD sit at Helm.
If TRENCHARD singly could sustain the Weight,
And from declining long support the State,
O what, when SHREWSBURY'S with him assign'd!
Atlas and Hercules together join'd.
TRENCHARD, who, Young, and in his private Sphere,
For Britain's Rescue could so Nobly dare:
Forgetting Youth's Diversions, could engage
For Publick Safety,—What may we presage,
From Skill, which ablest Discipline has wrought,
By Suff'rings, Time, and Observation, taught!
How, SHREWSBURY, for thy Return to State,
And once more condescending to be Great,
Shall my weak Muse assume the mighty Tone?
How eccho back the Joy by Nations shown,
Whose Breath wants Compass to express her Own?
Yet Oh! would Strength with my Desires comply,
My Song a Dytherambick Pitch should fly:
Pursuing thy just Praises to the Skies,
But they tow'r swift, and I want Wings to rise.
Immortal Streins should Caesar's Darling grace;
The Worhiest Heir of TALBOT'S Noble Race.
With gen'ral Thanks (for all your Absence mourn'd,)
We bless, at once, our Hopes and You return'd.
So Rome, distress'd, in one united Swarm
Welcom'd her great Dictator from his Farm.
These Worthies, Britain, for thy Glory born,
And Numbers more thy happy Realm adorn.
Turn, turn your Eye to bright Augusta's Pile;
See how her Sons, see how her Fabricks smile.
Ages were told by that Imperial Dame,
E're Rome determin'd her disputed Name.
Who Tyrant Rome in Iust Renown excell'd,
As far as Thames above the Tyber swell'd.
Her Scituation boasts no empty Height,
No Barren Mountains to support her Weight:
From Thames his Bank contented to look down,
And see the Treasures of the World her own.
Kind Stars could to her Blessings add no more,
But to secure what they conferr'd before:
'Tis done:—Her Laws, her Rights by Publick Voice
Were fix'd, when ASHHURST was her Guardian Choice.
All that her Hopes or utmost Wish could crave,
She to her self in that Election gave.
'Twas Then Fate snatch'd the Wheel from Fortune's Hand,
And charm'd it fast.—Thus utt'ring her Command,
At this Ascendant, my Augusta,—Stand.
For whom should her Consenting Votes engage
But ASHHURST? the Fabricius of our Age.
Sprung from a Patriot-Race of old Renown,
He centres all their Glories in his Own.
On Him, with Measure unconfin'd, did fall,
That Publick Spirit which inspir'd them All.
Augusta, to thy grateful Sons and Thee,
For ever Sacred let his Trophies be;
The boldest Champion of your Liberty.
For Peace can Courage boast with Triumphs crown'd,
That loud, as those obtain'd by War, resound:
Whose Gilded Lawrels too, are full as good,
In Fame's Esteem, as Lawrels dy'd in Blood.
Him, in her Chair, the City finds so Just,
That she repines 'tis but an Annual Trust:
Which, by th' Effects of his Industrious Skill,
Ev'n when Retir'd, he yet shall seem to Fill.
His Methods and Example shall prevail,
And Blessings on succeeding Reigns entail.
For Virtue, that does lasting Fruit intend,
And does, like His, its utmost Force extend,
In One Year's space whole Ages can befriend.
Behold the hurry'ng Crowd from ev'ry Street
Press to the Thames some Pageantry to meet.
Lo there in wondrous Pomp blue Tritons ride,
And Sea-Nymphs entring with the swelling Tide.
Advanc'd before our Senate-House, they call
For RUSSEL, their Victorious Admiral.
Envoys to him they come, and seem to say,
Neptune his ready Homage waits to pay,
And Thetis grows impatient of his stay.
Blessings attend your Counsels (thus they sing)
Great Britain's Senate, may your Gen'rous Spring
Of Tribute, for the Publick Safety, rise,
As full and fast as ours the Thames supplies;
Who finds, in circling Trade, his just return,
And blesses the Expences of his Urn.
Let RUSSEL still Command, and still the Main
To Britain his old Duty shall retain;
Still serve the Isle, which he, embracing laves,
With Loyalty as Ancient as his Waves.
Whose full Assembly did your Votes resound,
When You his Courage and his Conduct own'd.
O Sea's great Hero! to thy Fleet repair,
And see the ready Harvest of thy Care.
A cheerful Crew of Sailors doubly Fir'd,
By Native Valour, and by You inspir'd:
Through ev'ry Squadron plenteous Stores convey'd;
Their Flags and Streamers Gallantly display'd.
A flowing Tide and Winds presenting fair,
Or will at least when RUSSEL does appear.
French Pyrates snatch'd our Seas unguarded Wealth,
As Cacus the Herculean Herd, by Stealth:
The Hero's Absence that advantage gave;
But he returning Sack'd the Robbers Cave.
In vain the treacherous Den with Rock was Barr'd,
Which Fire and Smoak cou'd now no longer Guard.
The Rest, secur'd by shameful Odds, Engage;
Tourville alone cou'd boast a gen'rous Rage.
Nor unrenown'd his glitt'ring Sun is sett,
That RUSSEL, and Britannia's Lightning met.
'Twas Fame enough to dare, though forc'd to shrow'd
Her vanquish'd Glories in a shelt'ring Cloud.
With Terrors Threatning Pomp display'd they came,
Tempest-resembling Fury, Noise, and Flame,
Enough to have Astonish'd and O'rethrown
A Foe, not Arm'd with greater of his Own.
But urg'd the Fate that such Presumption crav'd,
When, Caesar, they your Naval Thunder Brav'd [...]
So rash Salmoneus, while with Iove he Vy'd,
Fell by that Thunderbolt, which he Defy'd.
From Sea, the Muse our distant Camp does view;
But dropps her Wing o're charg'd with briny Dew.
From her own Britain too, remov'd too far,
Where Caesar waits Fame's Summons to the War;
And ORMOND (His as Caesar Ormond's Care)
Prepares his Danger and Renown to share.
Whose Wounded Breast shall future Ages Charm,
Together Sung with WILLIAM'S Wounded Arm.
Shine Bright ye Stars, who kindly did divert
The Piercing Ponyard from that Gen'rous Heart.
Muse, Crown his Brow, but make his Lawrel wreath
As Mild and Sweet, as Morning Roses Breath;
Who Clemency to Courage reconciles,
And in whose Face delighted Nature smiles [...]
The Graces early Nurs'd whom they decreed
Their former Darling ORMOND to succeed:
Illustrious Ossery's expiring Breath,
Did him his Fame and Virtues Stock bequeath.
Thus to Elysian Fields the Phoenix Fled,
To his Successor leaves a Spicy Bed.
The Royal Eagle all the Noble Quire,
The Wondrous Heir of the Sun's Bird Admire.
From Fairy Land great Spencers shade shall rise,
And Milton from his Dream of Paradice;
To Charm the Boyne, and then the Shannon's Stream,
William their First, and TALMASH their next Theme.
Of Num'rous Worthies more our Lists can boast;
But who has Breath to Count that Starry Host?
The Muse who can that Galaxie recite,
May too the Princely Constellation Write;
Whom Britain's Iupiter, Presiding, draws,
And joins their Aspects in the Common Cause.
The Cause that Europe's Heroes did employ,
Of old Combining to demolish Troy.
For Helen's Rape, that Arm'd the Pow'rs of Greece,
Was but a Type of Violated Peace,
'Tis fix'd—Behold the happy promis'd Day
Already Plum'd, and on his Glorious Way,
With Triumphs charg'd, that shall once more invite
The gen'rous Muse that Sung the Boyne, to Write.
Themes Sacred, and by Fame reserv'd intire
For MONTAGUE'S inimitable Fire:
Fancy that can to Clouds of smoke give Light,
And trace a Hero through the dusky Fight.
Then, swift and glorious as the Conquest, bring
The News to Court on Rapture's Sacred Wing.
And shifting quick the Scene from Wars Alarms,
In breathing drafts express Maria's Charms.
Adorn'd with Innocence and Beauty's Beams,
Like Venus first Ascending from the Streams:
Or Phoebe in her Empire of the Skye,
Mildly Majestick, and serenely High!
Oh! when for such Illustrious Themes and Wit,
His Country's Service Leisure can permit;
When from his Task of State he may retire,
Th' inspiring Heat resuming with his Lyre;
Not Summer-Breezes shall delight us more;
Nor Waves that gently break upon the shore:
Nor Vocal Rills, that through the Valley stray,
Harmoniously Disputing all their Way.
FINIS.
A POEM Occasion'd by …

A POEM Occasion'd by the Happy Discovery of the Horrid and Barbarous Conspiracy to Assassinate his most Sacred Majesty, and to incourage an Invasion from France.

NOW Blessings on you all, ye Powers above,
Ye flaming Ministers of mighty Love;
You whose untainted Loyalty withstood
The fiercest efforts of th' old Plotting Brood;
Whose Host embatled under Michael's Care,
Drove from Heavens fluid Plains the first rebellious War.
Once more your guarding Influence we own,
So oft, and now so critically shown.
And oh! inspire my Song, your Charge I sing,
Your darling Charge, to shield a Pious King.
Say then how partial Heaven hath been of late,
In showring Blessings on our sinking State?
Did Treachery e'er so justly claim its aid,
Since that, by which both Devils and Hell were made?
Scarce oftner to the chosen Seed ye went,
With such kind merciful Commissions sent,
They found the Father more in Chastisement.
Midst AEgypt's Plagues rais'd by the powerful Rod,
And all the great Artillery of God;
Goshen enjoy'd its light and health, was free
From the dire Plagues, but mourn'd in Slavery.
More blest our Isle, which fruitful Peace hath chose
The safe Retirement of her long repose:
Alarm'd by distant dangers only, she
Sits safe i'th' Consecrated Circle of her Sea.
Through Desarts wast great Ioshua's Journey lay,
Ye march't i'th' Front, and made unnatural day;
A second Darkness between AEgypt's Host
And his ye spread, in which all tracks were lost.
Oft for Great William you perform the same,
And guard him through the dangerous Paths of Fame;
Where few dare follow, and where none can aid,
But you, that are of liquid texture made,
As Air invulnerable.
And scarcely You could the swift Globe divert,
So truly level'd at his noble Heart:
For well ye knew with what impetuous force
The missive Death moves in its rapid course;
Since when it drove you to a forc'd retreat,
And in God's Cause ye endur'd a short defeat;
But ye did ward it, and the tender Blow
Made the nice Miracle much greater show;
The Azure silk a nobler colour found,
The deep rich Purple of the Royal Wound.
Unarm'd that day, like Truth, the Monarch stood,
His Army pale, He red with Rage and Blood,
Quick through his Troops, as their own Fears, he past,
And turn'd those Fears to generous Rage at last.
Ye left not oftner your encreasing Theme
Of Hallelujahs, even to succour Him,
Who much for Valour, much for Troubles fam'd,
Long o'er the Jews, a murmuring People reign'd;
Though doubly he th' Almighty's Impress wore,
Good after his own Heart, and next to him in Power.
Nor great those dangers which that Prince did run,
Since all Saul's Plots however nicely spun,
Scap'd not the watchful Friendship of the Son:
That noble Son, who scorn'd a Ruffians name,
For his Sire's Crown, or his own future claim.
Yet ne'er did Treachery in Saul's Breast appear,
Till Heaven had left it and all Hell was there:
But not even then would he by Proxy kill,
He boldly dar'd to act what he durst will;
No meaner hand the pointed Javelin threw,
Than that which Saul himself at Gilboa slew.
Horrid indeed and new, that great intent,
Which once against our Senate-House was meant;
Had not You timely interpos'd your aid,
What a wide Golgotha had then been made!
There Stones, Skulls, Rafters, mangled Limbs, would form
The dire ingredients of th' unnatural storm.
Royal and Noble blood had mingled there,
And fall'n a dismal shower through the dark wounded Air.
But then our Island fear'd no foreign Chain,
From rising France, or from declining Spain.
Now Hell improv'd hath rais'd our danger higher,
Freedom with its Defender must expire.
Freedom! by all the Sweets of thy dear Name,
By all thy Charms, stronger than those of Fame,
Or Beauty, hear me swear; I'd chuse to live
Obscure, but blest with they Prerogative,
Rather than suffer the grand Monarchs Fate,
And to become so Guilty, and so Great.
Like Hannibal, he on our Coast appears,
And who his Faith less than the Punick fears?
In whose Cause e'er the Conquest he had won,
The Tyrant had enslav'd us in his own.
Degenerate Off-Spring of a Nation free,
Tenacious of its ancient Liberty!
That could that noble Privilege betray,
Though the vast Bribe both Indies were to pay.
When impious Corah did of old rebel,
Alive the Wretch translated was to Hell;
And Corah's be their Fate,
That reeking in a murder'd Monarch's gore,
Could meet their Brother Cut-throats on our shore.
If her own Sons, poor Albion thus expose,
What would she not have felt from foreign Foes?
Who can describe their Miseries, that at once
Must suffer under Jesuits and Dragoons?
Those would our Conscience, these our Bodies sway,
And even to sigh, would be to disobey.
The [...]oiling Slave must all his gains disburse
To the Priests tricks, or barbarous Souldiers force.
If any could from wretched Albion fly,
No Kingdom could afford him Liberty.
All Europe must submit to the hard Slavery.
Mild was the Oppression in the Conquering Reigns,
Of Romans, Saxons, Normans, or the Danes.
Few Arts they knew destructive of Mankind,
By Rome, and France, and Hell of late refin'd.
What Blood had stain'd and swell'd the blushing Thames,
Reflecting gloomily Augusta's Flames.
The brib'd Artillery too fierce Balls had sent,
And glowing to assist the raging Element.
Thus had the great Emporium of our Isle,
Flam'd for its Lord, a mighty Funeral Pile.
What Plague, and Fire, in two years had not done,
Had been perform'd now in two days alone.
Slow Desolation, and a lingring Fate
Had surely seiz'd the distant parts, though late.
Rapes, Plunders, Contributions, then had been
Throughout the unhappy Isle, one dismal Scene.
So 'tis with Men in an acute Disease,
Whom token'd Plagues, or fiery Fevers seize;
Quick as their trembling Pulse, or panting Breath,
Are the approaches then of sudden Death.
But when Fate forms a tedious Blockade,
Its Hectick steps are by Consumptions made:
The fleshy Outworks by degress consume,
And Skeletons receive the Conquerour's doom.
Say next, what dread on your dim Foreheads sate,
When ye beheld so near th' impending Fate.
In slow flat Notes ye mournful Anthems sung,
Harmonious Grief dwelt on each trembling tongue.
Did ye not fear, as Angels can, for Him,
Whom Tyrants dread more than their Subjects them?
For him, who knows no fear, but whose Defence
In War is Valour, in Peace Innocence;
For him, whose shining Sword with constant Pains,
Cuts through the Gordian Knots of servile Chains:
Who's Great, to be more Good in Victory,
He Wounds to heal, and Conquers to set free.
Doubly his hand prevails, when arm'd in War,
In Peace, when lifted up in pious Prayer.
So Moses from the Hill both Hosts survey'd
With the same warmth great Ioshua fought, he pray'd;
Fresh Courage from his Arm each Souldier took,
Faintness his Limbs, and Fear his heart forsook;
The Powers that in those Chiefs divided lay,
United in our King, secure the glorious day.
So Just, so Good, so Brave, to him alone
All such shall be compar'd, himself to none.
This know the Kings, whose truest Characters
Will be our generous Hero's in reverse.
Let then Blasphemous Epithets Proclaim,
The mighty Monarchs loud, but blasted, Fame;
The Gallic Muses Trophies raise in vain,
False is th' Applause, their Numbers all prophane.
The subject will require true Poetry,
Where all the nauseous Praise must Fiction be.
Extorted Gold th' Oppressor's Power doth raise,
That purchases his Conquests, and their Praise;
Let breathing stone express the looks divine,
And Persian Fires around the Marble shine:
If open War and noble dangers call,
Cold as his Statue sits the Original;
By other hands he gains mean Victories,
And only dares in Person Tyrannize.
Whilst Mighty William in a juster Cause,
His Conquering Sword with nobler Anger draws;
And dares the utmost Malice of his Foes,
In the wide Field his Rightful Claim t' oppose.
FINIS.

Publish'd by Elizabeth Whitlock near Stationers-Hall, 1696.

AN ODE In Memory of …

AN ODE In Memory of Her Late Majesty Queen MARY:

By a Person of Quality.
—Poema
Est Pictura Loquens.
I.
LOng our divided State
Hung in the Ballance of a doubtful Fate,
When One bright Nymph the gath'ring Clouds dispell'd,
And all the Griefs of Albion Heal'd,
Her the United Land Obey'd,
No more to Jealousies inclin'd,
Nor fearing Pow'r with so much Virtue join'd;
She knew her Task, and nicely understood
To what Intention Kings are made,
Not for their own, but for their Peoples good;
'Twas that prevailing Argument alone,
Determin'd Her to fill the Vacant Throne:
And yet with Sadness she beheld
A Crown devolving on her Head,
(By the Excesses of a Prince misled)
When by her Royal Birth compell'd
To what her God, and what her Country claim'd,
(Tho' by a Servile Faction blam'd)
How graceful were the Tears she shed!
II.
When waiting only for a Wind,
Against our Isle the Pow'r of France was Arm'd,
Her Ruling Arts in all their Lustre shin'd;
The Winds themselves were by Her influence Charm'd
Whilst Her Authority and Care supply'd
That Safety which the want of Troops deny'd,
Secure and Undisturb'd the Scene
Of Albion seem'd, and like Her Eyes, Serene,
Vain was th' Invader's Force, Revenge, and Pride,
Maria Reign'd, and Heav'n was on our side.
The Sceptre, by Her Self unsought,
Gave double Proofs of Her Heroick Mind;
With Skill she sway'd it, and with Ease resign'd;
So the Dictator, from Retirement brought,
Repell'd the Danger that did Rome Alarm,
And then return'd contented to his Farm.
III.
Fatal to the Fair and Young,
Accurst Disease, how long
Have wretched Mothers mourn'd thy Rage,
Rob'd of the Hopes and Comfort of their Age?
From the Unhappy Lover's side
How often hast thou torn the Blooming Bride!
Now like a Tyrant, rising by degrees
To worse Extreams, and blacker Villanies,
Practis'd in Ruin for some
The Small Pox is said to have Reign'd in Eu­rope about 250 Years.
Ages past,
Thou hast brought forth a Gen'ral one at last!
Common Disasters sorrow raise,
But Heav'ns severest Frowns amaze!
The QUEEN—a Word, a Sound,
Of Nations once the Hope, and firm Support,
Wealth of the Needy, Guard of the Opprest,
The Joy of All, the Wisest and the Best;
A Name that Ecchoes did rebound
With loud Applause from Neighb'ring Shores,
(Their Admiration; the Delight of Ours)
Becomes Unutterable now!
The Crowds in that dejected Court
Where Languishing MARIA lay,
Want Pow'r to ask the News they came to know,
Silent their drooping Heads they bow;
Silence it self proclaims th' approaching Woe!
Ev'n He (MARIA's latest Care)
Whom Winter Seasons nor
Foul-Wea­ [...]her.
Contending Iove,
Nor watchful Fleets could from his glorious Purpose move,
Intrepid in the Storms of War,
And in the midst of Flying Deaths sedate,
Now Trembles, now He sinks beneath the mighty Weight,
The Hero to the Man gives way.
IV.
Unhappy Isle, for half an Age a Prey
To fierce Dissention or Despotick Sway,
Redeem'd from Anarchy to be Undone
By the mistaken Measures of the Throne;
Thy Monarchs meditating dark Designs,
Or boldly throwing off the Masque,
(Fond of the Pow'r, unequal to the Task,)
Thy self without the least remaining signs
Of Ancient Virtue, so deprav'd,
As ev'n they wish'd to be Enslav'd,
What more than Humane Aid
Could raise Thee from a State so low,
Protect Thee from thy Self, thy greatest Foe?
Something Caelestial sure, a Heroine
Of matchless Form and a Majestick Mien;
By all Respected, Fear'd, but more belov'd,
More than Her Laws, Her great Example mov'd.
The Bounds that in Her God-like Mind
Were to her Passions set, severely Shin'd,
But that of doing Good was Unconfin'd.
So Just, that absolute Command,
Destructive in another Hand,
In Hers had chang'd its Nature, had been useful made;
Oh! Had she longer stay'd!
Less swiftly to her Native Heav'n retir'd,
For Her the Harps of Albion had been strung,
Th' Harmonious Nine could never have aspir'd
To a more Lofty and Immortal Song.
ON THE Late Horrid C …

ON THE Late Horrid Conspiracy.

By Mr. STEPNEY.
THE
Alexander.
Youth whose Fortune the vast Globe obey'd,
Finding his
Danius.
Royal Enemy betray'd,
And in his Chariot by
Bessus.
Vile Hands oppress'd,
With noble Pity, and just Rage possess'd,
Wept at his Fall from so sublime a State,
And by the Traytor's Death reveng'd the Fate
Of Majesty prophan'd—So acted too
The gen'rous Caesar, when the Roman knew
A
Ptolemy.
Coward King had treacherously slain
Pompey.
Whom scarce He foil'd on the Pharsalian Plain.
The Doom of his fam'd Rival her bemoan'd,
And the base Author of the Crime dethron'd,
Such were the Virtuous Maxims of the Great,
Free from the servile Arts of barb'rous Hate:
They knew no Foe, but in the open Field,
And to their Cause, and to the Gods appeal'd,
So WILLIAM acts—And if his Rivals dare
Dispute his Reign by Arms, He'll meet 'em there
Where Iove, as once on Ida, holds the Scale,
And let's the Good, the Just and Brave, prevail.

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