THE ADDRESS OF John Dryden, LAUREATE TO HIS HIGHNESS THE Prince of Orange.  
LONDON, Printed, and are to be Sold by Randal Taylor, near Stationers-Hall. 1689.   

THE ADDRESS OF John Dryden, LAUREATE TO HIS HIGHNESS THE Prince of Orange.  
IN all the Hosannas, our whole World's applause,  
Illustrious Champion of our Church and Laws,  
Accept, great Nassau, from unworthy me,  
Amongst the adoring Crowd, a bended Knee;  
Nor scruple, Sir, to hear my Echoing Lyre,  
Strung, tuned, and joined to th' Universal Choir:  
For my suspected Mouth thy Glories told,  
A known Outlier from the English Fold,  
Rome's Votary, the Protestants sworn Foe,  
Rome my Religion half an hour ago▪  
My Roman Dagon's by thy Arm o'erthrown,  
And now my Prostituted Soul's thy own:  
Thy Glory could convert that Infidel  
That had whole Ages stood immovable  
No wonder than thou couldst Affections sway  
In tender Breasts, like mine, such pliant Clay,  
As could even bear new moulding every day;  
Nor doubt thy Convert true, I who could raise  
Immortal Trophies, even to Cromwell's Praise;  
I who my Muse's Infant Quill could fledge,  
With high-sung Murder, Treason, Sacrilege.  
A Martyred Monarch and an enslaved Nation,  
A Kingdoms shame the whole World's Execration,  
By me translated even to a Constellation.  
If thus all this I could unblushing write,  
Fear not that Pen that shall thy Praise indite▪  
When Highborn Blood my Adoration draws,  
Exalted Glory and unblemished Cause:  
A Theme so all Divine my Muse shall wing,  
What is't for thee, great Prince, I will not sing?  
No Bounds shall stop my Pegasean flight,  
He spot my Hind, and make my Panther white.  
Against the Seven proud Hills I'll Muster all  
My Keen Poetic Rage, and Rhyme with all  
The Vengeance of a Second Hannibal.  
The Papal Chair by dint of Verse overturn,  
My Molten Gods, like Israel's Calf, I'll burn.  
Copes, Crosiers, all the Trumpery of Rome,  
Down to great Waller's blazing Hecatomb.  
I'll pound my Beads to Dust, and wear no more  
Those Pagan Bracelets of the Scarlet Whore.  
But whither am I wrapped! 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 fail,  
Thy Theme I'll to my Successors entail;  
My Heirs th'unfinished Subject shall complete:  
I have a Son, and He, by all that's Great,  
That very Son (and trust my Oaths, I swore  
As much to my Great Master james before),  
Shall by his Sire's Example, Rome renounce,  
For he, young Stripling, yet has turned but once.  
That Oxford Nursling, that sweet hopeful Boy,  
His Father's, and that once Ignatian Joy;  
Designed for a new Bellarmin Goliath,  
Under the great Gamaliel Obadiah.  
This Youth, Great Sir, shall your Fame's Trumpet blow,  
And Soar when my dull Wings shall flag below.  
A Protestant Herculean Column stand  
When I, a poor weak Pillar of the Land,  
Now growing Old, and crumbling into Sand.  
But hark! methinks, I hear the buzzing Crowd  
At my Conversion dare to Laugh aloud.  
Let censuring Fops, and snarling Envy grin,  
Tickled and pleased with my Chameleon Skin.  
No senseless Fools my true Dimensions scan,  
And know the Lawreat's a Leviathan.  
Now Tiber's Mouth Ebbs low, and on that Shore▪  
My rolling Bulk, alas, can Sport no more:  
Down the full Tide I scour, to take a loose  
In the more swelling Surge of Helvert Sluice.  
Let Chattering Daws, and every senseless Widgeon,  
Their Descant pass on that great Name, Religion.  
Religion, by true Politician Rules,  
The Wise man's Strength, and the weak Pride of Fools.  
For we, who Godliness for gain, support  
Heavens Votaries for Candidates at Court,  
Makes our Churchwalls, our Rampart, Sconce and Fort.  
Our Masses, Dirges, Vespers, Orisons,  
Our Counterscarps, our Rav'lins, and half Moons.  
And now our Ave Mary'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  
Be th' highest Attribute that Heaven can boast,  
That's the truest Church, that Heaven resembles most.  
The Tables than are turned; and 'tis confessed  
The Strongest and the Mightiest is the Best.  
In all my Changes I'm on the Right side,  
And by the same great Reason justified.  
When the bold Crescent lately attacked the Cross,  
Resolved the Empire of the World t'engross,  
Had tottering Vienna's Walls but failed,  
And Turkey over Christendom prevailed,  
Long ere this I had crossed the Dardanello,  
And sat the Mighty Mahomet's Hail Fellow,  
Quitting my duller Hopes, the poor Renown  
Of Eaton-College, or a Dublin-Gown,  
And commenced Graduate in the Great Divan,  
Had reigned a more Immortal Musselman.  
No Art, Pain, Labour, Toil, too much t'assail  
heavens Tow'ry Battlements. By Heaven I'd sail  
Through all Religions, Church o'er Churches mounted,  
More than the Rounds that Iacob'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 Stomaches pule.  
Shall scrup'lous Test disgust their Paschal stickle,  
Whether true dressed, in sauce, in 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 circle's in her flight,  
He who's of all Sides, must be once i'th' right.  
FINIS.