AN ESSAY ON POETRY; Written by the Marquis of NORMANBY, And the same rendered 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.   

To the Honourable Sir Robert Howard, One of His Majesty's Most Honourable Privy-Council, etc.  
SIR,  
THE Collecting into One Volume Several Choice Poems that were first Printed singly, met with so kind Reception as encouraged 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 Registered amongst the Sons of Apollo. The Offsprings of your Muse are so Beautiful, that Great Britain is proud of 'em; and if you are not equally pleased 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 confined to any single Walk of Poetry, but traversed all its Provinces, and (like Hercules) every where erected Pillars and Trophies, to be gazed 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 judgement are never wanting to adorn it. You are, Sir, deservedly Admired 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 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 advanced their Reputation, by showing 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 acquired 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 yourself with the private Exercise of justice and Generosity, but have shown a Public 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 occasions 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 atoned for Tha●, by procuring to be here Published an Ode on her l●●e Majesty, (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 Justness and Decency, both in Thought and Expression, that shi●es through every Stanza.  
Sir, I shall no farther trespass on your precious Minutes, only to beg Pardon for this Address, and Permission to Subscribe myself,  
Your Honour's most Devoted Humble Servant, N. TATE●   

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 Cornhill. MDCXCI.   

Typographus Lectori.  
CUM 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. deal, 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. valeres nevue 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, etc.  
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, diuûmque voluptas,  
Quas habitas sedes? cerebri num credere fas est  
Angusto hospitio tantum se includere Numen?  
Qu●ve proterva fugis, multùm aspernata vocantem  
cum 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:  
judicium sine natura torpetque, jacetque;  
Haec sin● judicio tantùm est speciosa phrenesis.  
judicio 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  
cum 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 ment 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?  
cum vix ulla malis sit terra fer●cior herbis?  
Quot nec Nilus alit cum 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 ment 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● .  
cum 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.  
jamque opus emensos mediâ plus parte Quadrigas  
Siste parùm; major rerum tibi nascitur ordo:  
Ut de Caucasei jovis 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, cum desit Achates,  
Arcanos gestit podio omni credere sensus:  
Nec refert, sisub specie narrantis amico,  
Enarret nobis; fluere ex re occasio debet,  
Ut tandem miseros cum 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, fluulosque rapaces,  
Aut lucum, & rivos, vel amoena rosaria pingis.  
Sed cum declamat summus dolor, ira perorat,  
In numerum cantat spretus, moribundus Amator,  
Quem non haec lapidem moveant? quam 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 cum 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, nouáque 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 
† Shakespeare & 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.  cum 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.  
cum 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 prius & Coelos & conscia Sydera testans,  
Absenti Nymphae flammas longo ordine narrat:  
Rivalique suos moriens commendat Amores.  
cum (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  
judicium 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.  
jam tandem Aonii praerupta per ardua montis  
Aerium lasso juvdt insedisse cacumen. 
Poema Epi●●m.   
Secreti hîc Epici Diuûm 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 Diuûm, 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 mother amine oursum?  
judicium 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 Masterpiece 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 finished, nothing shines so much;  
But Heaven forbid we should be so profane,  
To grace the Vulgar with that sacred Name;  
'Tis not a flash of Fancy which sometimes  
Dazzling our Minds, sets off the slightest Rhimes;  
Bright as a Blaze, but in a moment done;  
True Wit is everlasting, like the Sun;  
Which though sometimes behind a Cloud retired,  
Breaks out again, and is by all admired.  
Number, and Rhyme, 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;  
Itself unseen, yet all things by it shown,  
Describing all Men, but described 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?  
Even 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 judgement, Fancy is but mad;  
And Judgement has a boundless Influence,  
Not only in the choice of Words or Sense,  
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!  
Echoes 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 satire 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 even 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 easy, 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 shown  
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 easy, and the Fancy high,  
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly;  
No Words transposed, but in such order all,  
As, though 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 Fuel do but choke 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, Valour, 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 fantastic 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 tried,  
Women have drawn my wand'ring 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 filled,  
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 liked awhile, but never last;  
'Tis Epigram, 'tis Point, 'tis what you will,  
But not an Elegy, nor Writ with Skill,  
No 
* Waller's.  Panegyric, nor a 
‖ Denham's.  Coopershill.  
A higher Flight, and of a happier Force  
Are 
* Pindaric Odes.  ODES, the Muses most unruly Horse;  
That bounds so fierce, the Rider has no rest,  
But foams at mouth, and moves like one possessed.  
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 joined the Rules of Art;  
But ill Expression gives sometimes Alloy  
To that rich Fancy, which can ne'er decay:  
Tho all appear in Heat and Fury done,  
The Language still must soft and easy run.  
These Laws may seem a little too severe,  
But judgement yields, and Fancy governs there;  
Which, though extravagant, this Muse allows,  
And makes the Work much easier than it shows. 
satire.   
Of all the Ways that wisest Men could find  
To mend the Age, and mortify Mankind,  
satire well writ has most successful proved,  
And cures, because the Remedy is loved.  
'Tis hard to write on such a Subject more,  
Without repeating Things said oft before.  
Some vulgar Errors only we remove,  
That slain 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 conveyed:  
Some think, if sharp enough, they cannot fail,  
As if their only Business was to rail;  
But human Frailty nicely to unfold,  
Distinguishes a satire from a Scold.  
Rage's 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 itself may pass sometimes for Truth.  
The 
* Mr. D— n.  Laureate here may justly claim our Praise,  
Crowned by 
| A famous Satyrical Poem of his.  Mac-Fleckno with immortal Bays;  
Tho praised and punished for another's 
* A Libel, for which he wa● both applauded and wounded, though entirely 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 herself 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, though but little practised, 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 Beaumond 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 choose but pity  
A dying Hero miserably witty?  
But, oh, the Dialogues, where jest, and mock  
Is held up like a Rest at Shuttlecock!  
Or else like Bells, eternally they chime,  
They sigh in Simile, and die in Rhyme.  
What Things are these who would be, Poet's thought,  
By Nature not inspired, 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 judgement, 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 ourselves we Justice must allow,  
Shakespeare and Fletcher are the Wonders now:  
Consider them, and read them over and over,  
Go see them played, then read them as before,  
For though in many things they grossly fail,  
Over our Passions still they so prevail,  
That our own Grief by theirs is rocked asleep,  
The Dull are forced 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 fond 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 though 'tis 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 spite 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 Sense, as if possessed,  
And each by Inspiration breaks his Jest;  
If once the justness of each part be lost,  
Well we may laugh, but at the Poet's Cost.  
That silly thing, Men call Sheer-Wit, avoid,  
With which our Age so nauseously is cloyed;  
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 Sense.  
First a Soliloquy is calmly made,  
Where every Reason is exactly weighed;  
Which once performed, 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, though yet unknown,  
Parting this Pair, to leave the Swain alone,  
He straight grows jealous, yet we know not why,  
And to oblige his Rival, needs will die;  
But first he makes a Speech, wherein he tells  
The absent Nymph how much his Flame excels;  
And yet bequeathes her generously now  
To that dear Rival whom he does not know,  
Who straight appears (but who can Fate withstand?)  
Too late alas to hold his hasty Hand,  
That just has given 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. Johnson's Head;  
When the intrinsic Value of the Stage  
Can scarce be judged but by a following Age;  
For Dances, Flutes, Italian Songs, and Rhyme  
May keep up sinking Nonsense for a time.  
But that may fail, which now so much overrules,  
And Sense no longer will submit to Fools.  
By painful Steps we are at last got up  
Parnassus' Hill, on whose bright Airy Top  
The Epic Poets 
Epic Poetry.  so divinely show,  
And with just Pride behold the rest below.  
Heroic Poems have a just pretence  
To be the utmost reach of human Sense,  
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 mere words the Ears of Poet's wound!  
Just as a Changeling seems below the rest  
Of Men, or rather is a two-legged Beast,  
So these Gigantic Souls amazed we find  
As much above the rest of human kind.  
Nature's 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, viewed 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 shown where all the mighty Magic lies,  
Described 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 shown, but who has Strength to go?  
Who can all Sciences exactly know?  
Whose Fancy flies beyond weak Reason's Sight,  
And yet has judgement 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 Right Honourable CHARLES EARL of DORSET and MIDDLESEX, Lord Chamberlain OF HIS Majesty's Household. Occasioned by His Majesty's VICTORY in IRELAND.  
LICENCED, 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 Muse's Darling, Confident, and Friend?  
The Poets are your Charge, and, if unfit,  
You should be fined to furnish abler Wit;  
Obliged to quit your Ease, and draw again,  
To paint the Greatest Hero, the Best Pen.   

A Hero, who thus early does outshine  
The Ancient Honours of his Glorious Line;  
And, soaring more sublimely to Renown,  
The Memory of their pious Triumphs drown:  
Whose Actions are delivered over to Fame,  
As Types, and Figures of His greater Name.   

When Fate some mighty Genius has designed,  
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 Hero in a happy Light;  
Then, in a lucky and propitious Hour,  
Exerts her Force, and calls forth all her Power.   

In Nassam's Race she made this long Essay;  
Heroes and Patriots prepared the Way,  
And promised, in their Dawn, this brighter Day:  
A Public Spirit distinguished all the Line;  
Successive Virtues in each Branch did shine,  
Till this last Glory rose, and Crowned the Great Design.   

Blessed 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 injured, in all Kingdoms, Hope:  
Born to subdue insulting Tyrants Rage,  
The Ornament, and Terror, 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 deliverer 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 Public Cause, he takes the Field,  
And sheltered 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 Laurels, nipped by Malice, fade,  
And Virtue to Oblivion is betrayed:  
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;  
Enjoined 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 country's Fame, our Monarch's Arms, refuse?   

'Tis not my Want of Gratitude, but Skill,  
Makes me decline what I can ne'er fulfil:  
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 easy Numbers loosely to convey,  
What Mutual Friendship would at Distance say.   

Poets assume another Tone and Voice,  
When Victory's their Theme, and Arms their Choice.  
To follow Heroes, in the Chase of Fame,  
Asks Force, and Heat, and Fancy winged with Flame.  
What Words can paint the Royal Warrior's Face?  
What Colours can the Figure boldly raise?  
When covered over with comely Dust and Smoke,  
He pierced the Foe, and thickest Squadrons broke?  
His bleeding Arm, still painful with the Sore,  
Which, in his People's Cause, the Pious Father bore:  
Whom, cleaving through the Troops a Glorious Way,  
Not the united Force of France, and Hell, could stay.   

Oh, Dorset! I am raised! ● I'm all on fire!  
And, if my Strength could answer my Desire,  
In speaking Paint this Figure should be seen,  
Like jove 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 different Chances weighs:  
Then, fired 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 Din of War:  
The silent Troops stretch forth an eager Look,  
Listening 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 every 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 Monarches dictate from afar,  
And write the empty Triumphs of their War,  
In lazy Palaces supinely Rust;  
My Sword shall justify my People's 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 neighbouring Grounds,  
The roaring Deluge, rushing headlong on,  
Sweeps Cities in its Course, and bears whole Forests down  
So on the Foe the firm Battalions pressed,  
And He, like the Tenth Wave, drove on the rest;  
Fierce, Gallant, Young, He shot through every Place,  
Urging their Flight, and hurrying on the Chase,  
He hung upon their Rear, or lightened in their Face.   

Stop! stop! brave Prince! Alloy that Generous Flame,  
Enough is given to England, and to Fame.  
Remember, Sir, you in the Centre stand,  
Europe's divided interests you command,  
All their Designs uniting in your hand:  
Down from your Throne descends the Golden Chain,  
Which does the Fabric of our World sustain;  
That once dissolved 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 required to raise so Great a Man!  
Hear, how the Waves of French Ambition roar,  
Disdaining Bounds, and breaking on the Shore,  
Which You ordained to curb their wild-destructive Power,  
That Strength removed; 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 carried me thus far  
Transported and Amazed  
That Rage once spent, I can no more sustain  
Your Flights, your Energies, and Tragic Strain,  
But fall back to my Natural Pace again;  
In humble Verse provoking you to Rhyme,  
Iwish there were more Dorsets at this Time.   

Oh! if in France this Hero had been born;  
What Glittering Tinsel would 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 Virtue led in Chains of Gold.  
If Courage could, like Courts, be kept in Pay,  
What Sums would Lovis give, That France might say,  
That Victory followed where He led the Way?  
He all his Conquests would for this refound,  
And take th' Equivalent, a Glorious Wound.  
Then, what Advice, to spread his real Fame,  
Would pass between Versailles and No'tredame?  
Their Plays, their Songs, would dwell upon his Wound,  
And Operas repeat no other Sound;  
Boyne would, for Ages, be the Painter's Theme,  
The Goblin's Labour, and the Poet's Dream;  
The wounded Arm would furnish all their Rooms,  
And bleed for ever Scarlet in the Looms:  
Boileau with this would plume his Artful Pen.  
And can your Muse be silent? Think again.   

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 undisplayed.  
A Thousand Generous Actions close the Rear;  
A Thousand Virtues, still behind, stand crowding to appear.   

The QUEEN herself, the charming QUEEN should grace  
The Noble Piece, and, in an Artful Place,  
Soften 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 admired of late,  
Her Fears for Him, her Prudence for the State?  
Dissembling Cares, she smoothed 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, dismayed his Foes.  
Now, all in Joy, she gilds the cheerful Court,  
In every 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 easy 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 Unhollowed Hand:  
Tender the Strokes must be, and nicely writ,  
Disguised 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.    

THE Life of Alexander the Great, Written in Latin by Quintus Curtius, Translated into English by several Hands, and now Dedicated to the QUEEN. By N. Tate.  
SAID, A Romance, in Two Parts; Dedicated to the Ladies.   

AN EPISTLE TO Charles Montague Esq ON His MAJESTY's VOYAGE TO HOLLAND.  
BY Mr. GEORGE STEPNEY.  

LICENCED  
jan. 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,  
Pleased my past follies kindly to commend,  
And fond lose the Critic in the Friend;  
Tho' my warm Youth untimely be decayed,  
From Grave to Dull insensibly betrayed,  
I'll contradict the Humour of the Times,  
(Inclined to business, and averse to Rhimes)  
And to obey the Man I love, in spite  
Of the World's Genius, and my own, I'll write.   

But think not that I vainly do aspire  
To Rival what I only would Admire,  
The Heat and Beauty of your manly thought,  
And Force like that with which your Hero fought.  
Like Sampson's Riddle is that powerful Song,  
Sweet as the Honey, as the Lion 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 every Act may well infuse  
Some happy Rapture in the humblest Muse,  
Tho' 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 rescued Europe's Joy  
Do every Tongue and every Pen employ,  
'tis to think Treason sure to show no Zeal,  
And not to Write is almost to Rebel.   

Let Albion then forgive her Meanest Son,  
Who would continue what her Best begun;  
Who, leaving Conquests and the Pomp of War,  
Would 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 beloved, and loved the Victor most:  
How joyful Belgia gratefully prepared  
Trophies and Vows for her returning Lord;  
How the Fair Isle with rival passion strove,  
How by her Sorrow she expressed her Love,  
When He withdrew from what his Arm had freed,  
And how she blessed his way, yet sighed, and said,   

Is it decreed my Hero ne'er shall rest,  
Ne'er be of me, and I of him possessed?  
Scarce had I met his Virtue with my Throne,  
(By Right, by Merit, and by Arms his own)  
But Ireland's freedom and the Wars alarms  
Called him from me and his Maria's Charms.  
Oh generous Prince! too prodigally kind,  
Can the diffusive Goodness of your Mind  
Be in no bounds, but of the World, confined?  
Should sinking Nations summon You away,  
Maria's Love might justify Your stay.  
Imperfectly the many Vows are paid,  
Which for your Safety to the Gods were made,  
While, on the Boyne, they laboured to outdo  
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 Belgic State has rested long secure  
Within the Circle of thy Guardian Power;  
Reared by thy care that noble Lion, grown  
Mature in strength, can range the Woods Alone:  
When to my Arms they did the Prince resign,  
I blessed the Change, and thought Him wholly mine;  
Conceived Long hopes I jointly should 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 Hero, go;  
Nor let your eyes behold how mine do flow;  
Go, meet your Country's joy, your virtue's due,  
Receive their Triumphs, and prepare for new;  
Enlarge my Empire, and let France afford  
The next large Harvest to thy prosperous Sword;  
Again in Crecy let my Arms be reared,  
And o'er the Continent Britannia feared;  
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,  
Through different 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 cheer,  
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 decreed,  
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 breast  
Was swelled with Rapture, by Despair depressed,  
Fate called; The Hero must his way pursue,  
And her cries lessened 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 cheerful Triton's play.  
Each chose a different Subject for their Lays,  
But Orange was the Burden of their Praise:  
Some in their strains up to 〈◊〉 Fountain run,  
From whence this stream of Virtue first begun;  
Others chose Heroes of a later date,  
And sung the 
* William●  Founder of the neighbouring State,  
How daringly he Tyranny withstood,  
And sealed 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 outran  
The steps of Time, and early showed the Man,  
For whose Alliance Monarches 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 ordained the Parent soon should set  
To make the Glories of 
* His present Majesty.  his Heir complete.   

At William's Name each filled his vocal shell,  
And on the happy Sound rejoiced to dwell;  
Some sung his Birth, and how discerning Fate  
Saved Infant Virtue against powerful hate,  
Of poisonous Snakes by young Alcides quelled,  
And Palms that spread the more, the more withheld.  
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 injured Maid,  
Redeemed by the winged Warrior's timely Aid;  
Or in mysterious Numbers did unfold  
Sad modern truths wrapped up in tales of old,  
How Saturn, flushed with Arbitrary Power,  
Designed his Lawful Issue to devour,  
But jove, (reserved for better fate) withstood  
The black Contrivance of the doting God;  
With Arms he came, His guilty Father fled,  
('Twas Italy secured his frighted Head)  
And by his Flight resigned his empty Throne  
And Triple Empire to his Worthier Son.   

Then in one note their Artful force they join,  
Eager to reach the Victor and the Boyne;  
How on the wondering Bank the Hero stood,  
Lavishly bold and desperately Good;  
Till fate, designing to convince the Brave  
That they can dare no more than Heaven can save,  
Let Death approach, and yet withheld the sting,  
Wounded the Man, distinguishing the King.   

They had enlarged, but found the strain too strong,  
And in soft notes allayed the bolder Song:  
Flow, gentle Boyne, (they cried) 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 breathed afresh, unwilling to give over;  
And begged thick mists long to conceal the shore;  
Smooth was the Liquid Plain; the sleeping Wind,  
More to the Sea, than to its Master, kind,  
Detained a Treasure, which we value more  
Than All the Deep e'er 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;  
Charged 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 dangers He had run;  
Till, certain of her Joy, she bowed her Head,  
Confessed 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 designed to show,  
Not how we would Reward, but what we Owe.  
Hear from your Childhood take a short review  
How Holland's happiness advanced with you;  
How her stout Vessel did in Triumph ride,  
And mocked 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, wheresoever 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 Crowned 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, should be to time and place confined?  
But Thy return shall fix our kinder fate,  
For Thee our Councils, Thee our Armies wait;  
Discording Princes shall with Thee combine,  
And centre all their Interests in Thine;  
Proud 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 lose, nor Force shall cut.    

ADVERTISEMENT.  
An Epistle to Charles Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, Lord Chamberlain of His Majesty's Household. Occasioned by His Majesty's late Victory in Ireland. By Charles Montague, Esq   

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

LICENCED.  
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 tried in vain,  
Thy Monarch's sinking Credit to sustain;  
And thou too long hast misemployed 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, flattered 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 derived, but thee alone;  
Whose Muse so well does his mean Deeds rehearse,  
That he becomes Immortal in thy Verse;  
But to thy Verse no lasting Fame can give,  
In recompense 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 choose,  
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 Conquering 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 purchased 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 exposed, none less concerned 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 shows 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 Batteries made,  
And our lost Towns not taken, but betrayed.  
Thus when some Place by Purchase 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 Achievements reared:  
Thus Lewis fights, and thus is to be feared.   

But since he finds the Scene is altered now,  
And that his Treasure, as his Courage, low,  
Will not the old prevailing Means afford,  
That more enlarged 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 reduced to serve its Native Lord;  
Not as 'twas lost, but stormed with Fi 〈…〉 Sword;  
Which proves as irresistible a Power 〈◊〉  
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 Bravery 〈…〉 we;  
Equalled in Strength, in Valour is out ●●ne,  
And while Hue falls, stands tamely loo●ing on:  
So by Great William's conquering Arms dismayed,  
The Generals 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 Apprehension there,  
Nor as from Danger, were secured 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 usurped Dominion to be freed,  
The Sea no longer Tribute does afford,  
But justly pays it to the ancient Lord.  
Whose conquering Fleets assert their native Right,  
While the French Navy shuns the dreaded Sight.  
And sees itself in its own Ports confined,  
By Fear more powerful than an adverse Wind.  
So when the scaly sovereign 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 frighted 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 gallic Coasts, and their just Rage  
With Sacrifice of flaming Towns assuage:  
Whose sable Smoke ascending to the Sky,  
Mourns for the Structures that in Ashes ●ly.  
While strange Confusion spread along the Shore,  
Makes England's Power revered as heretofore.   

Nor does one Fleet alone her Fame advance,  
The Joys in Spain equal the Fears in France.  
And Barcelona all Attempts defies,  
While on our Monarch's Succour she relies,  
And sheltered 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 Power.  
Then in his Praises let famed 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 choose,  
Where Arbitrary Power enslaves thy Muse;  
And does thy Thoughts to narrow Bounds confine,  
Which Heaven for boundless Subjects did design:  
Know, our famed Prince can his own Trophies raise,  
And courts as little as he wants thy Praise.  
Nor, if such Means his Glory could advance,  
Would he have need to be obliged to France:  
Since his own Realms abound with Men of Sense,  
And famous for Poetic 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,  
Described his Fight and Conquest at the Boyne.  
That which most pleased, 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 Belgic 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 should no more,  
Than his large Soul be bounded by our Shore;  
Far as his Victories, his spreading Fame should sound,  
And be in every Tongue, as every Land renowned;  
Then, Boileau, let thy Muse begin her lofty Flight,  
Tho' she must still despair to reach the wondrous Height.   
FINIS.   

AN Epistle to the Right Honourable Charles Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, Lord Chamberlain of His Majesty's Household: Occasioned by His Majesty's Victory in Ireland.  
An Epistle to Charles Montague Esq on his Majesty's Voyage to Holland; by George Stepney.  
The Life of Alexander the Great, by Quintus Curtius: Translated into English by several Hands, and Dedicated to the Queen, by N. Tate, Servant to Their Majesties.   

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  
LAUDIBUS 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 Majesty's Household, etc.  
MY LORD,  
WITH conscious Fear my Muse approaches You,  
Wit's ablest judge, and best Example too.  
In Modesty your sight she should decline;  
The only Barren Thing on which You shine!  
To Yours Aspiring, and her country'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 every Plain;  
Our British Bards the only silent Throng;  
Rage hurried me on this adventurous Song.  
But oh! my Zeal forgot such Themes required,  
The Force and Fury of a Breast Inspired.  
Yet these weak Strains 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 Maecenas Shine.  
That Work commenced, how pleased shall I Retire!  
And at just Distance silently Admire;  
Content and Proud the Skilful to have moved,  
And see my rude Design so well improved.  
Even so blind Chance, the Art of Music found,  
A rustling 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, etc.  

AS Joyful Nature, who till then lay mute,  
Did the first Sun's exalted Beams salute;  
So Britain, rescued from the sullen Cloud  
That seemed her new-created Face to shroud,  
Beholds, at once Transported and Amazed,  
To proper Spheres her Brightest Planets raised.   

Our Monarch, who best knew their Use and Power,  
Reserved their Influence for the Prosperous Hour:  
Whose Aspects now a strong Direction joins,  
When Tyrannising Saturn's Course declines.  
Thus Kings, whose Actions are to Heaven allied,  
Like Providence, by Time are justified.  
Easy at Home their Task, when Peace combines  
With Pious Kings, and favours their Designs:  
Ours, pressed 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 crowned with tears.  
O'erjoyed her Consecrated Sons appear,  
(Those Sons that hold their Mother's Honour dear)  
To see the pastoral Chair by Him supplied,  
For whom the Voice of Angels would decide.  
In his Promotion Vice her Downfall read,  
She raved to find the MITRE on that Head:  
Her Venom swelled to see, of Piety  
So Charming an Example placed so High;  
Whose Influence, her Fears presaged, would make  
The Age reform, and her dark Empire shake.  
Preferment sought Him, (Worthless spirits intrude,  
But Modest Merit must by Kings be wooed.)  
He, slow consenting, to the Temple's Sway  
Aspired not, but did Caesar's Will Obey.  
While Caesar did, who only could, prescribe,  
He in mere Duty Rules the Sacred Tribe.  
His Moderation, Charity Divine,  
Led to this Choice our Generous Constantine.  
Whose Genius, while the CROSIER there he placed,  
His own Hereditary Virtues graced.  
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 harrassed 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! SUMMER with the Emblems of his State!  
How justly, Heaven, are now those Trophies born  
Before such Worth, in suitable Return,  
Adorning Him, who Britain does adorn!  
A Poet's Genius should be all on Fire;  
What Ecstasies should his raised Soul inspire?  
When Crowds, at Sight of Him, can Rapture feel;  
See how they press to Gaze, and load his Chariot-wheel!  
To fettered Numbers how shall be confined  
The compass of His Comprehensive Mind!  
Sense, Reason, Music, in his Language throng,  
The Graces sit Assembled on his Tongue;  
Whose Accents even the flying Winds surprise,  
Who watch their Birth, and bear 'em to the Skies.  
The Muses, who severer Arts profess,  
By Him are Cherished, ne'er denied Access:  
Only the Idle, and the Singing Crew,  
Chid from his Presence, long long since withdrew.  
In Youth, their Laurels at his Feet they laid,  
To Court Him, all their Syren-Charms displayed;  
Which like Ulysses wisely He contemned,  
And, Tacking off, the Tide of Business stemmed.  
'Twould beggar Thought and Language both, to raise  
The full proportioned Tribute of his Praise.  
Whom, through all Provinces of Learning crowned,  
Transcendent Virtues render more renowned.  
Justice does, visible, from Heaven repair;  
Unveiled 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 proportioned to my Zeal,  
I'd sing the Guardian of the Privy-Seal.  
On PEMBROKE, 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 Public Trust,  
To Honour's Scheme so regularly just;  
That his whole Soul but seems a Model framed  
By those rare Arts in which his Skill is famed.  
Whose Judgement the best Pencil can direct;  
In Symmetry instruct the Architect.  
Whose Rays can Light to Time's dark Relics give,  
And from the Grave Antiquity retrieve.  
O Sacred Faculty! whose Power transcends  
Life's Territories, and the Dead befriends.  
Blessed Genius! who Past Ages can renew,  
And Ours transmit to All that shall ensue.  
Who every Science, and so early, gained,  
As Heaven Inspired, not Industry Obtained.  
Vast Ocean, that from every Channel draws,  
From Statesmen, Schools, Divine and Human Laws.  
To Worth depressed, and injured Right, his Ear  
Is ever open, and his Heart sincere.  
O Piety! O Truth without a Stain!  
Reserved by Heaven 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 supplied,  
And briskly circulates the Sanguine Tide:  
Each vigorous Limb, ungrieved, 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 assigned!  
Atlas and Hercules together joined.   

TRENCHARD, who, Young, and in his private Sphere,  
For Britain's Rescue could so Nobly dare:  
Forgetting Youth's Diversions, could engage  
For Public Safety,— What may we presage,  
From Skill, which ablest Discipline has wrought,  
By Sufferings, 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 echo 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 tower swift, and I want Wings to rise.  
Immortal Strains should Caesar's Darling grace;  
The Worhiest Heir of TALBOT'S Noble Race.  
With gen'ral Thanks (for all your Absence mourned,)  
We bless, at once, our Hopes and You returned.  
So Rome, distressed, in one united Swarm  
Welcomed 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 Fabrics smile.  
Ages were told by that Imperial Dame,  
ere Rome determined her disputed Name.  
Who Tyrant Rome in Just Renown excelled,  
As far as Thames above the Tiber swelled.  
Her Situation 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 conferred before:  
'Tis done:— Her Laws, her Rights by Public Voice  
Were fixed, when ASHHURST was her Guardian Choice.  
All that her Hopes or utmost Wish could crave,  
She to herself in that Election gave.  
'Twas Then Fate snatched the Wheel from Fortune's Hand,  
And charmed it fast.— Thus uttering 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 unconfined, did fall,  
That Public Spirit which inspired 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 crowned,  
That loud, as those obtained by War, resound:  
Whose Gilded Laurels too, are full as good,  
In Fame's Esteem, as Laurels died 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,  
Even when Retired, 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 every Street  
Press to the Thames some Pageantry to meet.  
Lo there in wondrous Pomp blue Tritons ride,  
And Sea-Nymphs entering with the swelling Tide.  
Advanced 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 Generous Spring  
Of Tribute, for the Public Safety, rise,  
As full and fast as ours the Thames supplies;  
Who finds, in circling Trade, his just return,  
And blesses the Expenses 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 owned.  
O Sea's great Hero! to thy Fleet repair,  
And see the ready Harvest of thy Care.  
A cheerful Crew of Sailors doubly Fired,  
By Native Valour, and by You inspired:  
Through every Squadron plenteous Stores conveyed;  
Their Flags and Streamers Gallantly displayed.  
A flowing Tide and Winds presenting fair,  
Or will at least when RUSSEL does appear.   

French Pirates snatched our Seas unguarded Wealth,  
As Cacus the Herculean Herd, by Stealth:  
The Hero's Absence that advantage gave;  
But he returning Sacked the Robbers Cave.  
In vain the treacherous Den with Rock was Barred,  
Which Fire and Smoak could now no longer Guard.  
The Rest, secured by shameful Odds, Engage;  
Tourville alone could boast a generous Rage.  
Nor unrenowned his glittering Sun is set,  
That RUSSEL, and Britannia's Lightning met.  
'Twas Fame enough to dare, though forced to shroud  
Her vanquished Glories in a sheltering Cloud.  
With Terrors Threatening Pomp displayed they came,  
Tempest-resembling Fury, Noise, and Flame,  
Enough to have Astonished and O'erthrown  
A Foe, not Armed with greater of his Own.  
But urged the Fate that such Presumption craved,  
When, Caesar, they your Naval Thunder Brav'd●  
So rash Salmoneus, while with jove he Vied,  
Fell by that Thunderbolt, which he Defied.   

From Sea, the Muse our distant Camp does view;  
But drops her Wing o'er charged with briny Dew.  
From her own Britain too, removed 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 Poniard from that Generous Heart.  
Muse, Crown his Brow, but make his Laurel wreath  
As Mild and Sweet, as Morning Roses Breath;  
Who Clemency to Courage reconciles,  
And in whose Face delighted Nature smiles●  
The Graces early Nursed 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 Choir,  
The Wondrous Heir of the Sun's Bird Admire.   

From Fairy Land great Spencer's shade shall rise,  
And Milton from his Dream of Paradise;  
To Charm the Boyne, and then the Shannon's Stream,  
William their First, and TALMASH their next Theme.   

Of numerous Worthies more our Lists can boast;  
But who has Breath to Count that Starry Host?  
The Muse who can that Galaxy recite,  
May too the Princely Constellation Write;  
Whom Britain's jupiter, 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 Armed the Powers of Greece,  
Was but a Type of Violated Peace,   

'Tis fixed— Behold the happy promised Day  
Already Plumed, and on his Glorious Way,  
With Triumphs charged, that shall once more invite  
The generous Muse that Sung the Boyne, to Write.  
Themes Sacred, and by Fame reserved entire  
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.  
Adorned with Innocence and Beauty's Beams,  
Like Venus first Ascending from the Streams:  
Or Phoebe in her Empire of the Sky,  
Mildly Majestic, 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 Occasioned by the Happy Discovery of the Horrid and Barbarous Conspiracy to Assassinate his most Sacred Majesty, and to encourage 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 showering 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 oftener to the chosen Seed ye went,  
With such kind merciful Commissions sent,  
They found the Father more in Chastisement.  
Midst AEgypt's Plagues raised by the powerful Rod,  
And all the great Artillery of God;  
Goshen enjoyed its light and health, was free  
From the dire Plagues, but mourned in Slavery.   

More blessed our Isle, which fruitful Peace hath chose  
The safe Retirement of her long repose:  
Alarmed by distant dangers only, she  
Sits safe i'th' Consecrated Circle of her Sea.   

Through Deserts wast great Ioshua's Journey lay,  
Ye marched 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 levelled 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 forced retreat,  
And in God's Cause ye endured 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.  
Unarmed 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 passed,  
And turned those Fears to generous Rage at last.   

Ye left not oftener your increasing Theme  
Of Hallelujahs, even to succour Him,  
Who much for Valour, much for Troubles famed,  
Long o'er the Jews, a murmuring People reigned;  
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,  
Scaped not the watchful Friendship of the Son:  
That noble Son, who scorned 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 dared 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 interposed 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 fallen a dismal shower through the dark wounded Air.   

But then our Island feared no foreign Chain,  
From rising France, or from declining Spain.  
Now Hell improved hath raised 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 choose to live  
Obscure, but blest with they Prerogative,  
Rather than suffer the grand Monarch's Fate,  
And to become so Guilty, and so Great.  
Like Hannibal, he on our Coast appears,  
And who his Faith less than the Punic fears?  
In whose Cause e'er the Conquest he had won,  
The Tyrant had enslaved us in his own.   

Degenerate Offspring 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 murdered Monarch's gore,  
Could meet their Brother Cutthroats 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 Priest's tricks, or barbarous Soldiers 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 refined.  
What Blood had stained and swelled the blushing Thames,  
Reflecting gloomily Augusta's Flames.  
The bribed Artillery too fierce Balls had sent,  
And glowing to assist the raging Element.  
Thus had the great Emporium of our Isle,  
Flamed for its Lord, a mighty Funeral Pile.  
What Plague, and Fire, in two years had not done,  
Had been performed now in two days alone.  
Slow Desolation, and a lingering Fate  
Had surely seized the distant parts, though late.  
Rapes, Plunders, Contributions, than had been  
Throughout the unhappy Isle, one dismal Scene.  
So 'tis with Men in an acute Disease,  
Whom tokened 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,  
It's Hectic 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 sat,  
When ye beheld so near th' impending Fate.  
In slow flat Notes ye mournful Anthems sung,  
Harmonious Grief dwelled 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 armed in War,  
In Peace, when lifted up in pious Prayer.  
So Moses from the Hill both Hosts surveyed  
With the same warmth great joshua fought, he prayed;  
Fresh Courage from his Arm each Soldier 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 compared, 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 Monarches loud, but blasted, Fame;  
The Gallic Muses Trophies raise in vain,  
False is th' Applause, their Numbers all profane.  
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.   

Published by Elizabeth Whitlock near Stationers-Hall, 1696.   

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 Balance of a doubtful Fate,  
When One bright Nymph the gathering Clouds dispelled,  
And all the Griefs of Albion Healed,  
Her the United Land Obeyed,  
No more to Jealousies inclined,  
Nor fearing Power with so much Virtue joined;  
She knew her Task, and nicely understood  
To what Intention Kings are made,  
Not for their own, but for their People's good;  
'Twas that prevailing Argument alone,  
Determined 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 compelled  
To what her God, and what her Country claimed,  
(Tho' by a Servile Faction blamed)  
How graceful were the Tears she shed!   

II.  
When waiting only for a Wind,  
Against our Isle the Power of France was Armed,  
Her Ruling Arts in all their Lustre shined;  
The Winds themselves were by Her influence Charmed  
Whilst Her Authority and Care supplied  
That Safety which the want of Troops denied,  
Secure and Undisturbed the Scene  
Of Albion seemed, and like Her Eyes, Serene,  
Vain was th' Invader's Force, Revenge, and Pride,  
Maria Reigned, and Heaven was on our side.  
The Sceptre, by Herself unsought,  
Gave double Proofs of Her Heroic Mind;  
With Skill she swayed it, and with Ease resigned;  
So the Dictator, from Retirement brought,  
Repelled the Danger that did Rome Alarm,  
And then returned contented to his Farm.   

III.  
Fatal to the Fair and Young,  
Accursed Disease, how long  
Have wretched Mothers mourned thy Rage,  
Robbed 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 Extremes, and blacker Villainies,  
Practised in Ruin for some 
* The Small Pox is said to have Reigned in Europe about 250 Years.  Ages past,  
Thou hast brought forth a Gen'ral one at last!  
Common Disasters sorrow raise,  
But heavens severest Frowns amaze!  
The QUEEN— a Word, a Sound,  
Of Nations once the Hope, and firm Support,  
Wealth of the Needy, Guard of the Oppressed,  
The Joy of All, the Wisest and the Best;  
A Name that Echoes did rebound  
With loud Applause from Neighbouring Shores,  
(Their Admiration; the Delight of Ours)  
Becomes Unutterable now!  
The Crowds in that dejected Court  
Where Languishing MARIA lay,  
Want Power to ask the News they came to know,  
Silent their drooping Heads they bow;  
Silence itself proclaims th' approaching Woe!  
Even He (MARIA's latest Care)  
Whom Winter Seasons nor 
* Foul-Wea●her.  Contending jove,  
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 Dissension or Despotic Sway,  
Redeemed from Anarchy to be Undone  
By the mistaken Measures of the Throne;  
Thy Monarches meditating dark Designs,  
Or boldly throwing off the Masque,  
(Fond of the Power, unequal to the Task,)  
Thyself without the least remaining signs  
Of Ancient Virtue, so depraved,  
As even they wished to be Enslaved,  
What more than Humane Aid  
Could raise Thee from a State so low,  
Protect Thee from thyself, thy greatest Foe?  
Something Celestial sure, a Heroine  
Of matchless Form and a Majestic Mien;  
By all Respected, Feared, but more beloved,  
More than Her Laws, Her great Example moved.  
The Bounds that in Her Godlike Mind  
Were to her Passions set, severely Shined,  
But that of doing Good was Unconfined.  
So Just, that absolute Command,  
Destructive in another Hand,  
In Hers had changed its Nature, had been useful made;  
Oh! Had she longer stayed!  
Less swiftly to her Native Heaven retired,  
For Her the Harps of Albion had been strung,  
Th' Harmonious Nine could never have aspired  
To a more Lofty and Immortal Song.    

ON THE Late Horrid Conspiracy.  By Mr. STEPNEY. 
THE 
a Alexander.  Youth whose Fortune the vast Globe obeyed,  
Finding his 
b Danius.  Royal Enemy betrayed,  
And in his Chariot by 
c Bessus.  Vile Hands oppressed,  
With noble Pity, and just Rage possessed,  
Wept at his Fall from so sublime a State,  
And by the traitor's Death revenged the Fate  
Of Majesty profaned— So acted too  
The generous Caesar, when the Roman knew  
A 
d Ptolemy.  Coward King had treacherously slain  

e Pompey.  Whom scarce He foiled on the Pharsalian Plain.  
The Doom of his famed Rival her bemoaned,  
And the base Author of the Crime dethroned,  
Such were the Virtuous Maxims of the Great,  
Free from the servile Arts of barbarous Hate:  
They knew no Foe, but in the open Field,  
And to their Cause, and to the Gods appealed,  
So WILLIAM acts— And if his Rivals dare  
Dispute his Reign by Arms, He'll meet 'em there  
Where jove, as once on Ida, holds the Scale,  
And let's the Good, the Just and Brave, prevail.   

ADVERTISEMENT.  
THE Temple of Death, a Poem, by the Marquis of Normanby. H●rate of the Art of Poetry, made English by the Earl of Roscommon The Duel of the Stag●, by the Honourable Sir Robert Howard: Together with several other Excellent Poems, by the Earls of Rochester and Orr●●y; Sir Charles Sidley, Sir G●orge E●b●●id●e the Honourable Mr. 〈◊〉 Mr. Gra●bil, Mr. Dryden, Mr. Chevroned, and Mr. Tate; with several Poems, by the Honourable; Ma●●●●● Wh●●●t●n.