AN EPISTOLARY POEM TO John Dryden, Esq Occasion'd by the much Lamented DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Iames Earl of Abingdon.

By WILLIAM PITTIS, Late Fellow of New-College in Oxon.

Quanto rectius hoc, quam tristi laedere versu
Pantolabum scurram, Nomentanum (que) Nepotem?
—Cadit & Ripheus justissimus unus
Qui fuit in Teuc [...] & servantissimus aequi.
Aen. Lib. 2.

LONDON, Printed for H. Walwyn, at the Three Leggs in the Poul­try, over against the Stocks-Market. 1699.


My Lord,

THO' I could have wish'd that the Gentleman to whom the following Papers are directed, had prevented me in the Trouble I am now giving You; yet I cannot but lay hold on this Mournful Occasion, to acquaint the World what a Share it has in Your Lordship's Loss, and what a Concern the Muses should have shewn, who have seen it so visible in Your Lordship.

A general Silence indeed shews the Consternation to be also General; our Silence among those whose very Sorrows should speak, Silence a­mong Men of a Profession who are not us'd to hold their Peace in Ex­cesses of Ioy or Grief, is much more a Crime than an Inadvertency; and if I am late in my Offerings to the Memory of the deceas'd Noble Lord, Your Lordship's Father, it is out of the respect I bear to it, having been in hopes some Pen or other of a more establish'd Reputa­tion would have acknowledg'd it self a Debtor, tho' it could never dis­charge the Debt, and have made an Attempt towards the Description of those Vertues which no Describer can do that Justice to which They deserve.

The Vniversity near which He liv'd, and the City in which He dy'd, had both of 'em Gentlemen, who being of Merit Themselves, were ca­pable of setting it out in Others; and if both had employ'd Them­selves in recommending those Vertues to our Practice, which are so deserving of our Esteem, they had not laid under the Imputation of being idle, as well as ungrateful.

Their Remissness, My LORD, has added Wings to my Diligence; and tho' I am sensible Your Lordship's Father's Character is fall'n into ill hands, yet rather than not say something of One, who deserves to have so much said of Him, I must put in for a Petitioner to Your Lordship, [Page] and beg Your Acceptance of a Present, which has nothing but the Zeal of its Donor to recommend it to Your Lordship's Hands. That the Great Man who gives Being to the following Poem, by losing His own, was Loyal to His PRINCE, and Affectionate to His COVNTRY, unwearied in His Alms, and incessant in His Prayers, deserving the Highest Honours from His KING, yet retir'd from COVRTS to commune with His GOD, are Excellencies worthy of His Muse whom the following Poem is perswading to the Recital of 'em; and there will want nothing to add to their Perfection, and crown 'em with their due Commendations, after I shall have said, He was Your Lordship's FATHER. For to give Being to a Gentleman who is exercis'd in preserving that of others, is as great as if the Noble Lord continued to preserve them Himself; and what was reckon'd as a Com­pliment in the Poet to the greatest of Emperors, viz.

—Nec enim de CAESARIS actis
Vllum Majus opus, quam quod Pater extitit Hujus.

may be very applicable to Your Lordship, and receiv'd for a Truth.

But I am running into the Character of a Gentleman, who has Me­rit enough to lose me in it; I shall therefore only add my Wishes. That Your Lordship may continue the Pursuit of those Paths, which Your Lordship's Deceas'd Father has mark'd out for You, That Your Lordship's Noble Brothers may still practice those Vertues, which They have already given such Specimens of: And that Your Lordship may be an Honour to that NAME which has furnish'd us with as many Instances of its being Illustrious, as it has Owners, is the hearty Prayer of,

Your Lordship's most Humble, and most Obedient Servant, William Pittis.


AS I have no great reason to boast of the Excellen­cies of the following Poem, so the Reader must excuse me if I do not enter into Confessions of its Faults, and prevent a great many Gentlemen whose time will lie upon their hands, if depriv'd of the Satis­faction of being employ'd in finding them out themselves. But I can justly tell them, That I have not left so much room for an Animadverter, as I did on the Epistle to Mr. Tate on the Taking of Namur; and have so far agreed with the Civil Gentleman who past his Censure on the Poems relating to that Subject, that if he continues in the same Hu­mour of being hard to be pleas'd, he has more reason to be a­sham'd of it now than he had then.

In short, The Management of this is agreeable to the na­ture of an Epistle; and I have endeavour'd to suit the Ma­jesty of my Subject with a Turn of Verse, which tho' it does not come up to it, is not servily creeping or affected: I have all along continued speaking to the Person it is directed to, and have been as careful of running into Excursions as possible. Several Expressions are indeed Synonimous; and tho' I might have said a great deal more of the Noble Persons whom I have had occasion to speak of, I could have wish'd I had said less, unless it was more deserving their Acceptance. And tho' I am not an Author confirm'd enough to carry my Coppies about [Page] to Gentlemen's Chambers in order to pick up Amendments and Corrections, as the Practice is now of our most receiv'd Wri­ters; yet I must in Iustice to my self, and the Gentleman who has favour'd me with its Perusal, tell the World, it had been much worse had not Mr. Dryden acquainted me with its Faults. Nothing indeed was so displeasing to him as what was pleasing to my self, (viz.) this own Commendations; and if it pleases the World, the Reader has no one to thank but so distinguishing a Iudgment which has occasion'd it.

I might here lay hold of the Opportunity of returning the Obliging Compliments he sent me by the Person who brought the Papers to him before they were Printed; but I may chance to call His Iudgment in question by it, which I always counted infallible but in his kind Thoughts of me; and there­fore refer the Reader to the Poem in order to see whether he'll be so good-natur'd as to join his Opinion with the Compli­ment the Gentleman aforesaid has honour'd me with.

AN EPISTOLARY POEM TO John Dryden, Esq Occasion'd by the DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Iames Earl of Abingdon.

WHEN Heroes yield to Sickness and the Grave,
And pay that Life to Nature, Nature gave;
The Muse attending on their Hearse should wait,
To mourn the daring Enterprize of Fate,
And Tears unceasing, and her Sighs unfeign'd,
Should tell what Earth has lost, and Heav'n has gain'd.
[Page 2]But Oh! what Muse, what Numbers can disclose
Our present Loss, and speak our present Woes?
Ev'n Isis's Sons (and Isis's Sons have lays
Deserving Fame, and which Desert can praise)
Silent they stand, and with their Harps unstrung,
Adore that Worth, which should ador'd be sung,
Grief! pow'rful Grief prevailing on their Sense,
Permits them not to sing the Fate's Offence.
But Thou, Great Bard, whose hoary Merits claim
The Laureat's Place, without the Laureat's Name;
Whose Learned Brows, encircled by the Bays,
Bespeak their Owner's, and their Giver's Praise;
Thou, Dryden, should'st our Loss alone relate,
And Heroes mourn, who Heroes canst create.
Amidst thy Verse the Wife already shines,
And owes her Vertues, what she owes thy Lines.
Down from above the Saint our Sorrows views,
And feels a second Heaven in thy Muse;
Whose Verse as lasting as her Fame shall be,
While thou shalt live by Her, and she by Thee.
Oh! let the same immortal numbers tell
How just the Husband liv'd, and how he fell,
What Vows when living for his Life were made,
What Floods of Tears at his Decease were paid;
And since their deathless Vertues were the same,
Equal in Worth, alike should be their Fame.
But thou withdrawn from us, and publick Cares,
Flatter'st thy Age, and feed'st thy growing Years,
Supine, unmov'd, regardless of our Crys,
Thou mind'st not where Thy Noble Patron lies:
Wrapt in Death's Icy Arms within his Urn,
Behold Him sleeping, and beholding mourn:
[Page 3]Speechless That Tongue for wholesom Counsels fam'd,
And without sight those Eyes for Lust unblam'd,
Bereav'd of Motion are Those Hands, which gave
Alms to the Needy, did the Needy crave.
Ah! such a Sight, and such a Man Divine,
Does only call for such a Hand as Thine!
Great is the Task, and worthy is Thy Pen,
The best of Bards should sing the best of Men.
Awake, arise, from Thy Lethargick State,
Mourn Britain's Loss, tho' Britain be ingrate;
Nor let the sacred Mantuan's Labours be
A Ne plus ultra to Thy Fame, and Thee.
Thy Abingdon, if once Thy glorious Theme,
Shall vie with His Marcellus for Esteem,
Tears in his Eyes, and Sorrow in his Heart
Shall speak the Reader's Grief, and Writer's Art:
And, tho' this barren Age does not produce
A great Augustus to reward Thy Muse;
Tho' in this Isle no good Octavia reigns,
And gives Thee Virgil's Praemium for His Strains:
Yet Dryden, for a while forsake Thy Ease,
And quit Thy Pleasures that Thou more may'st please.
Apollo calls, and ev'ry Muse attends
With ev'ry Grace, who ev'ry Beauty lends.
Sweet is Thy Voice, as was Thy Subject's Mind;
And like His Soul Thy Numbers unconfin'd,
Thy Language easy, and Thy flowing Song,
Soft as a Vale, but like a Mountain strong.
Such Verse as Thine, and such alone, should dare
To charge the Muses with their present Care.
[Page 4]Thine, and the Cause of Wit, with speed maintain,
Least some rude Hand the sacred Work prophane,
And the Dull, Mercinary, Rhiming Crew,
Rob the Deceas'd and Thee, of what's your due.
Such Fears as these, (if Duty cannot move,
And make Thy Labours equal to Thy Love)
Should hasten forth thy Verse, and make it show
What Thou, Mankind, and ev'ry Muse does owe;
As Abingdon's High Worth exalted shines,
And gives, and takes a Lustre from thy Lines,
As Eleonora's pious Deeds revive
In Him, who shar'd Her Praises when alive.
So the stern Greek, whom nothing could perswade
To quit the rash Engagements which he made,
With sullen Looks, and Helmet laid aside,
He sooth'd his Anger, and indulg'd his Pride;
Careless of Fate, neglectful of the Call
Of Chiefs entreating till Patroclus's Fall.
Rouz'd by his Death His Martial Soul could bend,
And lose his whole Resentments in his Friend;
As to the dusky Field he wing'd his Course,
With Eyes impatient, and redoubled Force,
And wept him dead in thousands of the Slain,
Whom living, Greece had beg'd his Sword in vain.
One Friend in Tears that shade could only boast
And Grecia gain'd, in what Achilles lost.
But Oh! the Glorious Dead, to whom we pay
Our present Grief, and fruitless Sighs convey,
He! so his Worth demands, and Vertues crave,
Is wept by Thousands, who could Thousands save.
[Page 5]Yonder He lies, ah! what has Albion done,
To be thus punish'd in Her Noble Son?
Round Him his Orphan Children Pensive stand,
And Sadness reigns, and deepest Griefs command,
Brave Manly Sorrow sits upon their Face,
And speaks at once their Duty, and their Race.
A Father's Death for Lamentations crys,
But what that asks, a Father's Life denies;
Their Hearts are acting what their Eyes forbear,
Remembring what He was, and what They are.
Amidst the rest, superlative in Care
Erects Himself, his Wealth and Honour's Heir,
To Heav'n He looks, for Heav'n alone could take
A Soul like His of bright Aetherial make,
And argues with its Laws, and blames those Pow'rs,
Who suffer'd Fate to thwart His Vows and Ours:
As His Religion with His Duty strives,
And He bewails for lost, what He revives.
The Sons describ'd, the Brothers next appear,
And Leeds and Lindsey pensive Sable wear.
The first the Prop, and Atlas of the State,
Tho' now resign'd the Charge, and pompous Weight;
And who had still (could murm'ring Brittains know
What grateful Minds to their Protectors owe)
Bestow'd his Counsels and pursu'd his Toils,
Had we return'd his Labours with our Smiles.
But We, to do this thankful Nation right,
Hug the Deliv'rance, the Deliv'rer slight,
And use such odd Acknowledgments as show
Not what We take, but what the Givers owe.
Grant Heav'n, the Pilot gone, that Albion's Realm
May never want His Guidance at her Helm;
[Page 6]Round Her may no rough Storms or Billows beat,
To force Him from His Leisure, and retreat;
Tho' much I fear, and prescious is the Muse,
That She shall court that Help we could refuse.
The last, but oh! what daring Pen can shew,
Sorrows like His, and paint those Sorrows true!
In Vertues, and in Honour's List the Chief,
Mournful He stands, yet Conq'ror of His Grief;
His Father's Courage boils within His Veins,
And o're the Brother's Loss contends, and reigns.
But why, alas! do I in vain pursue
Sorrows like His, which fly the Searchers View?
The Noblest Muse in such Attempts must fail,
Heroes like Him should grieve behind a Veil.
Yet cannot I (tho' lowly be my Song,
And whom 'twould praise perhaps the Verse may wrong)
Neglect such Goodness, and such Worth forbear,
Which I, ev'n I, by His Example share.
Lindsey! A Name to Britain's Subjects known,
So far from Fraud, and yet so near the Throne;
The Courtier's Pride without the Courtier's Arts,
And great His Post, as great are His Deserts;
Retir'd from all the Pageantry and Pride
Of Pallaces, in private to reside,
He flies the Place where specious Ills resort,
And loves the Monarch, tho' he shuns the Court.
But I, too far by Lindsey's Worth am led,
And in the living Heroe lose the Dead.
Ah! Sacred Shade from sinful Albion torn,
Whom we must ever want, and ever mourn,
Whose Life could teach us, and whose Death could tell
The Comforts, and the Ioys of living well:
[Page 7]He from above our weak Attempts surveys,
And what we Offer, to His Maker pays,
Thankful to Him by whose all-wise Decrees,
Nature had made Him live, and made Him please.
Within, their Tears the Weeping Servants spend,
And as they mourn their Master, mourn their Friend;
Without, the Poor their sad Attendance give,
And almost cease, their Patron dead, to live.
Their Wants are loud, and clam'rous is their Care,
Having no hopes but Heav'n, and in His Heir.
And, who but they can Fortune's Wrongs redress,
And Israel's Sons with Israel's Manna bless?
Support the Feeble, and Employ the Strong,
And Nurse the Aged, and Instruct the Young?
Who can His Counsels with His Bounty give,
And saving Life shall teach 'em how to live?
But Oh! not only These have cause for Tears,
Tho' great Their Loss, and just Their growing Fears;
Nations should weep, and Kingdoms should employ
Their Grief on Him who was a Kingdom's Joy.
To be a Father Tender, Just, and Good,
A Brother in Affection, as in Blood;
To be a Master, whose Indulgence strove
Ev'n to out-do His Grateful Servants Love;
To be a Patron permanent, and wise,
Still giving, and prepar'd for Merit's Crys:
These! These are Actions of uncommon Fame,
And rarely practic'd, may our Wonder claim.
But to arise in injur'd Vertue's Cause,
Defend our Freedoms, and assert our Laws,
To side with Iustice, and in part secure
That Worship holy which with Him was pure;
[Page 8]As much exceeds those Vertues, as They raise
Their Deeds above the vulgar Merit's Praise,
And purchas'd Blessings ne'r had been restor'd,
But by the Prince He serv'd, and by His Sword.
Just was the Cause, as was its Champion brave,
Resolv'd to die, or else resolv'd to save;
Much did His Love to Him that err'd perswade,
But more the Error beg'd, and urg'd His Aid.
Up from His dear Retreat, and lov'd Abode,
He rais'd Himself, impatient for His God;
Nor sheath'd His pious Sword, nor eas'd His Thoughts,
Till Heav'n had sav'd the Land, and heal'd her Faults:
And then quite deaf to proff'ring Courts He came,
Rejecting Titles, and resisting Fame,
And hid from Business, tho' He could not hide
From doing Good, He bless'd His God, and dy'd.
So Rome's Dictator from the Plough arose,
And left his Pleasures to pursue his Foes;
But Rome preserv'd, and Roman Rights maintain'd,
Home he return'd, and in his Farm he reign'd,
Ease and Retreat the Triumphs which he sought,
And reap'd the fruits of Peace, for which he fought.
Methinks, I see the dying Heroe lie,
Joys in His Heart, and Raptures in His Eye,
Chearful His Looks, and easy is His Mind,
Speechless expiring, thoughtful, and resign'd.
Children, and Wealth, and Brethren urge His stay,
But Heav'n's in view, and wings Him on His way.
And lo! He mounts, around Him Angels fly,
And bear their Sacred Charge along the Sky;
Heroes stand up, and Saints departed greet
Their Heav'nly Guest, and guide Him to His Seat.
[Page 9]But who can Eleonora's Joys reveal?
Or speak those Pleasures only She can feel?
Swift to Her Husband's Arms the Goddess flies,
Dwells on His Looks, and feasts upon his Eyes,
Entranc'd her Mind, still growing fresh Delight,
Which ev'ry Look renews, and ev'ry Sight;
Ten Thousand hasty Welcomes see Her give,
Ten Thousand Questions ask of those who live;
Again She hears Him, and again entreats
Th' obliging News, which He again repeats;
As in each other's Arms reclin'd, They share
Each other's Praises, and each other's Pray'r.
O DRYDEN! quick the Sacred Pencil take,
And rise in Vertue's Cause for Vertue's sake;
Of Heav'n's the Song, and Heav'n-born is Thy Muse,
Fitting to follow Bliss which mine will lose:
Bold are Thy Thoughts, and soaring is Thy Flight,
Thy Fancy tempting, Thy Expressions bright;
Moving Thy Grief, and pow'rful is Thy Praise,
Or to command our Tears, or Ioys to raise.
So shall His Worth, from Age to Age convey'd,
Shew what the Heroe did, and Poet paid;
And future Times shall practice what they see
Perform'd so well by Him, and prais'd by Thee,
Whilst I confess the Weakness of My Lays,
And give My Wonder where Thou giv'st Thy Praise:
As I from ev'ry Muse but Thine retire,
And HIM in Thee, and Thee in HIM admire.

THE PATENTEE: OR, Some Reflections in Verse on Mr. R—'s forgetting the Design of his Majesty's Bear-Garden at Hockly in the Hole, and Letting out the Theatre in Dorset-Garden to the same Use, on the Day when Mr. Dryden's Obseqies were perform'd; And both Play-houses forbore Acting in Honour to his Memory.

'TWAS well perform'd, as it was well design'd▪
And Lords and Commons the Procession joyn'd:
Horror in all its Pomp of Sorrows drew
A Scene of Woe which Grief could hardly view,
When through the Streets the mournful Chariots pass'd,
And slowly bore what Fate destroy'd in hast:
As weeping Crouds officious in their Praise,
Sprinkled with flowing Tears the wither'd Bays.
Yet what avails it? That this Prince of Bards,
Has all just Honours paid, and due Regards;
That He in Chaucer's Grave most Nobly sleeps,
And Fame around his Tomb her Vigils keeps:
That Learned Garth his Sacred Worth has shown
In Eloquence, not Second to his own,
And, speaking what shall be with pleasure read,
Reviv'd those Vertues which he wept for Dead.
That Hireling Players could their Acts refrain,
And greedy Patentees forgoe their Gain,
To pay their cheap Acknowledgments of Woe,
And own a Debt which they must ever owe;
If on the solemn Day the Stage is lent
For Slaves to tread, and Villains to frequent,
As Noise, and Nonsence joyn'd together sit,
And desecrates the Hallow'd Seat of WIT.
Oh! Sacred Bard, from whose instructive Lays,
Britannia conquers. Italy in Praise,
[Page]Who feel'st the Raptures which thy Numbers taught,
And ha'st no other Eyes but those of Thought,
A while forget thy bless'd Abode, and see
That House prophan'd which owes its Fame to Thee.
Within whose Walls thy coppy'd Heroes shew,
How much the Feign'd could personate the True;
Behold the Structure, and survey the Dome
Which makes Augusta Rival ancient Rome,
And shews the Glories of the British Isle,
As Europe cannot boast a Noble Pile
The best of Buildings and the worst abus'd,
A Stable should not be so meanly us'd.
Ah! see the Place where thy Ventidius stood,
Bending with Years, and most profusely good,
Unmov'd by Fate, and of unshaken Truth,
His Counsels those of Age, His Courage that of Youth;
Where Mourning Anthony contesting strove
Which to relinquish, Honour, or his Love,
As ev'ry Hearer's Sorrows took his Part,
And truly wept for him who griev'd with Art.
Butchers and Bailiffs now the Boxes fill.
Where Ladies Eyes were Instruments to kill,
Where Kit-Cats sate, and Toasters would be seen,
These swoln with Wit, and those with Letch'ry lean.
But its in vain that I Resentments show,
The craving Muck-worm R— will have it so.
And spight of Shame, and due Respect to Sence,
Has turn'd it to a Slaughter-house for Pence,
Departed Shade! For whom he Sorrows feigns,
And sends his Mourning Coaches for his Gains,
Down from above thy Sacred Spirit dart,
And Influence, some Author with thy Art.
To lash the griping Wretch, who dare debase,
So fine a Structure, and so sweet a Place.
May P—l leave him, nor V—n more
Act a Coquet, or an imagin'd Wh—re.
May W—ks no fam'd Sir Harry Wild-airs make,
Diverting only for its Actors sake,
But Patentee left Weeping in the lurch,
See Drury-Play-house thin as Parish-Church;
'Till it at last has neither Wh—re, nor Cully,
A just Reward for Dorset-Garden Folly;
And is let out (to finish it's disgrace)
To sell the Meat that's kill'd at t'other Place.
Printed in the Year, 1700.

A PANEGYRICK On the Author of Absolom and Achitophel, occasioned by his former writing of an Elegy in praise of Oliver Cromwel, lately Reprinted.

WHEN Old Philosophers wrote the Worlds Birth,
And from wild Chaos brought great Nature forth;
The self same Atoms as they different ran,
Club'd to a Lyon, Monky, Bear, or Man:
From such thin Sires such solid Off-springs grew,
So Divine Wite, like the First Matter Thou:
Thy subtle Sparks do such strange Products make,
That Thou just nothing, yet all Forms canst take.
So justly thou hast deserved thy long-worn Bays,
That as a Trophy to thy Endless Praise,
Let that great Poem its long Silence break;
The worthyest of thy vast Creation speak,
Methinks I fancy how bold Mutius Dart
Was levell'd at Porsenna's Royal Heart,
And in defeated Rage I see him doom
His [...] Hand t'its flaming Martyrdom.
Le [...] [...]is poor Deeds in dull Oblivion dye;
Thy Vengeance with a surer Aim lets fly:
[...] keen Iambicks 'gainst thy Sovereign Lord,
Thy Pen was more Successful than his Sword.
So vast a Pile thy lofty Numbers raise
Those Babel-Builders to great MOLOCHS praise.
A Pile which to thy Honour will surpass
Even thy own Corah's Monumental Brass.
Thou writest with so much Flame, Flame so refined,
That Poetry's the Feaver of thy Mind:
And Feaver-like in those bleak days of Yore.
When Loyalty was Naked left and Poor,
Thy Aguish Veins Chill'd at a Starving Door.
But Burning high thy active Spirits run
At prosperous Rebellions warmer Sun.
When Phaeton misled the Day, and hurl'd
His scatter'd Fires around the scorching World:
How would his Glories in thy Meeter Chime,
The Groans of Worlds thus softned into Rhime?
Or when great Nero set his Rome on Fire,
And Tuned its Ruine to his jocund Lyre;
How with his Musick would thy Notes agree,
A Song, great Bard, fit to be Set by Thee
Such Wonders have thy powerful [...] [...]hown,
Pythagoras Transmigration thou'st [...] done.
His Souls of Heroes and great Chiefs Expired,
Down into Birds and Noble Beasts retired.
But thou to Savages and Monsters dire
Canst infuse Sparks, even of Coelestial Fire,
[Page]Make Treason Glory, Murderers Herbes live;
And even to REGICIDES canst GOD-HEADS give.
Thus in thy Songs, the yet warm Bloody Dart,
Fresh [...]eaking in a Martyr'd Monarchs Heart.
Burnish't by Verse, and polisht by thy Lines,
The Rubies in Imperial Crowns outshines.
Whilst in Applause to that sad days Success,
So Black a Theme in so Divine a Dress;
Thy Soaring Flights Prometheus Thefts excell;
Whil'st Thou stealst Fire from Heaven t'enlighten HELL.
But stay, my Muse, here change thy gawdy strain,
And shew a New, no less Prodigious Scene.
That Lawrell'd Head, whose sweet Melodious Tongue,
To Curse ye Mero [...] IOPAEAN Sung,
A Bag-pipe Drone to the old Priestcrast Cant:
Who once did Consecrated Daggers chant,
And Englands great Ravilliack sung before;
Now Tunes his Pipes to Davids Righteous Lore.
In Caevolas Stump the Convert Pen he brings,
And his Burnt Hand now writes the Praise of Kings.
Thus Bold, thus Great, and all in the Extream,
His Panegyricks are like Daniel's Dream;
This Tribute now to David's Glory pay,
A Head of Gold to his old Feet of Clay.
No wonder then so Feelingly he tells
Of Corahs, Shimeis, and Achitophells.
Such Characters he may well gild so fine,
Who has their Rich Ore from his own Native Mine.
How vast an Orh has a Poetick Soul.
Grasps all from East to West, and Pole to Pole.
Its warbling Voice, Right, Wrong, Truth, Falshood Sings,
Tuned to all States, Religions, Gods or Kings.
Oh Wit how Wide is thy Circumference?
Where thy Attractive Center's Bread and Pence.
Pence did I say! oh they have charming skill,
To rouse the Gaul of an Heroick Quill,
Is there not mighty sound and mighty fence,
In great Iscariots thirty c [...]inking Pence!
By this Lucina hast thou born with pain,
The numerous Off-springs of thy teeming Brain;
More various Issues in Nile's slimy Bed,
Not thy own Patron Phaebus ever bred▪
Thy pregnant Heats, like Israels wanton Lust,
First mould thy Golden Calves, then pound them into Dust.
Write on, and more then Winds or Frenzy Range,
Keep still thy old Prerogative to Change.
'Tis poor Humanity that's kept in bound,
Whilst Power unlimited is God-like found:
Then thy Great self thou wondrous Poet show:
Honour and Principles [...] know
Thy Mercurye's too proud to [...]
All Laws and Bounds let thy wild Muse despise,
And raign the Prince oth' Air, in which [...]
Reprinted in the Year MDC [...].

AN ELEGY On the most celebrated Poet of the Age, John Dryden Esq Who Departed this Life, May the 1st. 1700.

MOnarchs of Wit, and Worlds, must all lay down;
One Fate waits both the Laurel and the Crown.
Even DRYDEN, (what e'er Immortality
The Muse may claim) the Bard, alas, must dye.
Apollo's Eldest Son in Dust thus layd,
What Pomp must make his Funeral Cavalcade!
By the whole Muses Race that Honour'd Head,
To his great Urn in solemn Sables led.
WIT mourn'd by Wit! Those the chief Mourners here?
No; let that sullen Tribe bring up the Rear.
WIT's so ill Natur'd grown, they have not all
One genuine Tear, worthy to mourn his Fall.
At distance then the envying Scriblers stand,
Nor let His Rites be by false Tears profan'd.
Let Worth and Honour; the Ingenius Fair,
And the Learn'd Great, be the true Mourners there:
They whose rich Cabinets his Works adorn;
Who with his loftier Ayrs awake the Morn;
Or with his softer Numbers lull their sleep;
Theirs are the Eyes this Albion Loss should weep.
VVhat tho' the warmth of Youth in Age retire:
It chill'd no Spark of his Poetick Fire.
VVit's verdant Bays, unshockt by VVinter's Blast,
Like VVit's great Patron God should Youthful last.
Vig'rous and warm did his last Numbers glow,
Like Aetna, kept the Flame beneath the Snow.
To the last Gasp thus his tun'd Raptures ran,
And only finisht like the dying Swan.
[Page]What tho' his Laureat Raign once shock'd by Fate,
(For Wit, like Empire, has its Turns of State)
The blushing World his Muse's Throne beheld,
By such poor Empty Heads supply'd, not fill'd,
He kept this yet unshaken Glory still,
He only lost the Feather, not the Quill.
Let Garth's and Blackmore's th'Albion World divide,
Whilst warring Criticks battle on each side.
Parties and Factions there in Arms appear;
Uncertain Victory, all Chance of War.
The popular Favour there on either side,
All Ebb and Flow, the Torrent's but a Tide.
Great Dryden no such giddy Scepter sway'd,
All Knees his Universal Homage pay'd.
DRYDEN so fill'd th'Apollinary Throne,
DRYDEN Wit's Alexander raign'd Alone.
And as when that Great Head no longer shin'd,
In Death his World, but not his Fame resign'd,
His numerous Successors put in their Claim:
So the poor Rivals to Great Dryden's Fame,
All petty Candidates their weak Pretensions raise,
And only Ca [...]on out his vast Immortal Praise.


Here lies in Dust, All that in Dust can lye,
As much of Dryden as had pow'r to dye.
Tombs we may build him. But where Ashes best
Deserve a Monument, they need it least.
His lasting Praise from dull Oblivion safe,
Is fairer Read, than in an Epitaph.
Nor needs there Pyramid, or vaulted Dome,
The Superstructure to enrich his Tomb.
His Pile of Volumes does that Work alone:
WIT needs no Mausoleum but its own.

LONDON, Printed, and are to be Sold by I. Nutt near Stationers-Hall.

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