The Address OF John Dryden, Laureat, To His Highness the Prince of ORANGE.
IN all th' Hosannah's, our whole World's Applause,
Illustrious Champion of our Church and Laws;
Accept, Great NASSAW, from unworthy Me,
Amongst th' Adoring Crowd, a bended Knee:
Nor Scruple▪ Sir, to hear my Ecchoing Lyre,
Strung, Tun'd, and Joyn'd in th' Universal Quire;
From my suspected Mouth, Thy Glories told,
A known Out lyer from the English Fold,
Romes Votary, the Protestant sworn Foe—
Rome!—my Religion, half an hour ago.
My Roman Dagon's by thy Arm or'ethrown;
And now my Proselyted Soul's Thy own.
Thy Glory would convert that Infidel,
That had whole Ages stood Immoveable.
No wonder then Thou canst Affections sway
In Tender Breasts like mine, such pliant Clay,
As could even bear new Moulding twice a day.
Nor doubt thy Convert True, I who could raise
Immortal Trophies, even to CROMWEL's Praise:
I who my Muses Insant Quill could Fledge,
VVith high-sung Murder, Treason, Sacriledge:
A Martyr'd Monarch, and an Enslav'd Nation,
A Kingdom's shame, the whole VVorld's Execration,
By me Translated even t'a Constellation.
If this, all this, I could unblushing Write;
Fear not that Pen that shall Thy Praise Endite:
VVhere High-Born-Blood my Adoration draws,
Exalted Glory, an Unblemisht Cause.
A Theme so all Divine, my Muse shall wing,
VVhat is't, Great Prince, for Thee I will not sing?
No bounds shall stop my Pegasean flight,
I'll spot my Hinde, and wash my Panther white.
Against the seven proud Hills I'll Muster all
My keen Poetick Rage, and Rhime with all
The Vengeance[?] of a second Hannibal:
The Papal Chair by dint of Verse o'erturn;
My Moulten Gods, like Israels Calf, I'll burn;
Copes, Crosiers, all the Trumpery of Rome,
Doom'd to Great Wallers Blazing Hecatomb:
I'll pound my Beads to dust, and wear no more
Those Pagan Bracelets of the Scarlet VVhore.
But whether am I rapt! for, oh! my Fears!
I bend beneath the weight of sixty Years:
Low runs my Glass, more low my Aged Muse,
And to my Will, alas, does Power refuse.
But if, Great Prince, my feeble strength shall faile;
This Theme I'll to my Successors entayle:
My Heirs th' Unfinisht Subject shall Compleat.
I have a Son, and he, by all that' Great;
That very Son (and trust my Oaths; I Swore
As much to my Great Master JAMES before)
[Page 3] Shall by his Sire's Example, Rome renounce;
For he, young Stripling, yet has turn'd but once.
That Oxford Nursling-plant, that hopeful Boy,
His Fathers, and the once Ignatian Joy,
Design'd for a new Bellarmine Goliah
Under the great Gamaliel, Obadiah,
That Youth, great Sir, shall your Fames Trumpet blow,
And soar, when my dull Wing shall flag below:
A Protestant Herculean Column stand,
When I, a poor weak Pillar of the Land,
Now growing old, am crumbling into Sand.
But hark; methinks I hear the buzzing Crowd
At my Conversion dare to laugh aloud.
Let Cens'ring Fopps, and snarling Envy grin,
Tickled and pleas'd with my Camelion Skin.
No; sensless Fools, my true Dimensions scan,
And know the Laureat's a Leviathan.
Now Tyburs Mouth ebbs low, and on that shore
My rowling Bulk, alas, can sport no more:
Down the full Tide I scowr, to take a loose
In the more swelling Surge at H [...]bver-Sluys.
Let chatt'ring Daws, and every sensless Widgeon,
Their descant pass on that great Name, Religion;
Religion, by true Politician Rules,
The Wise Man's strength, and the weak-side of Fools.
For we, who Godliness for Gain support,
Heav'ns Votaries for Candidates at Court,
Make our Church walls, our Rampart, Sconce & Fort.
Our Masses, Dirges, Vespers, Orisons;
Our Counter-scarps, our Ravelins, and Half-Moons.
And now our Avemary's put to th' Rout,
And from that Bastion, I am beaten out;
I'm but retiring to a new Redoubt
Why should I blush to turn, when my defence
And Plea's so plain? For if Omnipotence
[Page 4] Beth' highest Attribute that Heaven can boast;
That's the tru'st Church that Heaven resembles most.
The Tables then are turn'd, and 'tis confest,
The strongest and the mightiest is the best.
In all my changes then, I'm o'th' right side;
And by the same great Reason justifi'd;
When the bold Crescent late Attacqu'd the Cross,
Resolv'd the Empire of the World t'ingross,
Had tottering Vienna's Walls but fail'd,
And Turkey over Christendom prevail'd:
Long, long e'er this, I had past the Dardanello,
And sat the mighty Mahomets Hayl-fellow:
Quitted my duller Hopes, the poor Renown
Of Eaton Colledge, or a Dublin Gown;
And commenc'd Graduate in the great Divan,
Had raign'd a more Immortal Mussulman.
No Art, Pain, Labour, toyl's too much, t' assail
Heavens Towry Battlement; my Heaven I'd scale
Thro' all Religions, Church o'er Churches mounted,
More than the Rounds that Jacob's Ladder counted.
Has this stupendious Revolution past;
A change so quick, and I not turn as fast?
Let boggling Conscience shock the squeamish Fool,
Poor crazy Animals, whose Stomachs pule:
Shall scrup'lous Tastes disgust their Paschal, stickle
Whether true drest in Sowce, or Broth, or Pickle?
If Muscadine runs low, I'm not so dull,
But I can pledge Salvation in Lambs-Wool.
And if Salvation to one Church is bound,
So much the rather would I change all round.
Change then can be no fault: A whole Life long
Kept in one Church, may always be i'th' wrong.
But there where Conscience circles in her flight,
We who 're of all sides, must be once i'th' Right.
London, Printed in the Year, 1689.