THE LAUREL, A POEM ON THE Poet-Laureat,  
Nos sequimur Lauros Te Lauri sponte sequuntur.  
LONDON, Printed for Benj. took at the Ship in St. Paul's Churchyard, 1685.   

Prefatory Remarks,  
IT would be but an impertinent sort of a Preface, (though not so unusual,) to tell you here of the Design of the following Poem, when any one may see for what it is Designed, though that Elaborate sort of superfluity, has been an Introduction to many a Piece, and whole Sheets spent in an Exposition of the Title Page, that's Clear, and then its Author has nothing now to do, but to Clear himself.  
If any can Censure it for a bold Attempt, we'll with all our Heart own our Confidence: But than it shall be only placed in him, that has most Reason to Censure, and that's the Subject, who is the most concerned, and the best Judge; and then his severer Animadversions will be superseded by the Kindness of the Oblation: And a Kid can never be despised, only because we could not offer an Hecatomb: And lest his own Modesty may Master his Judgement, or others Envy condemn mine, and both make it too much for such a Subject; both will be better pleased too when I tell them it was Penned (as indeed it was,) only to Please myself.  
The Motive that inclined the Muse to this undertaking, was not a determined Flattery, but a Chance of Fancy, and so far from Affectation of Favour; 'tis a sordid Saul that turns Sycophant out of Design: Had it aimed so low, sure its Subject should have been more Lofty: Some PATRON PEER, some Person Greater, and perhaps deserving Less. It's Author is much satisfied such a Theme has Exercised his own Pen, and as little Solicitous whether it gratify any other Person: That which he is concerned for, is, His ever appearing at all like a Poet, though it were in praise of the best; and what he could have better Expressed perhaps in a Panegyric, than a Poem; there being to that required such a Smooth and Natural Easiness, not to be acquired by the Pollishing of Art, and Industry: Such a sort of Wits must be happily conceived so in the Womb: if ever their Muse will become Happy in its Conceptions: The Latin Aphorism tell us truly, (that they must be born, while others may be made:) and they but unfortunately Glory with the Great, to be Famed for their Mother's Labour, not their own.  
That which put us upon Poetry, was not to Cheer up our Padding Prose, with the Comfortable noise of Bells, and Rhyme, an Excuse perhaps that can't be well made use of where the Verse tires too, and proves out a Jade: But if a Body may deal plainly in an Age, where 'tis hard to find plain Dealing: It was the Effects of some solitary Retirements, even among the midst of Company: Thought and the Muse, could still affect their Obscure Retreats, where others only the most splendid Appearance, and made a shift to warm themselves into Verse upon a Cold Spring, and Epsome Water: so that we won't pretend to so much as a Small Beer Poet, when inspired only with the Element of John Taylor. I confess I never loved much Strong Drink, and have read the Muses had a great many Fountains too that never ran Wine: And were I as well barrelled as their Popular Poet, Ogg himself, I should hardly Love to be always as full too; (though if his Verse were to be gauged in his Vessel'twould be still found empty) Even than I should rather choose to jog on Lazily in Sober Sense, than take the Pains to be Drunk for his Elaborate Dulness: Well may the Sot, (as they say) Blaspheme in his Wit and Wine, when only the Devils Apollo Fires him with his God. The little satire we have spent on him, and some such Seditious Scribblers, was both seasonable, and pertinent, and proceeded from a double Provocation: Their avowing themselves Enemies to all Loyalty, as well as the Laureate, their Libelling of late their own Sovereign as well as his Subjects; and though the sucking Muse is yet Young enough to want Teeth: Yet they may find its Gums too, can make a shift to bite.  
That Rural sort of Entertainment we met with in the Country, has in some Places made the Fancies Pastoral. The Eye being affected with such External Objects, as made the like Impression on the Mind within: And 'tis an Old Axiom we learned I remember out of our Schools; That there is nothing in the Intellect, but what is first represented to it by the Sense: Which Maxim in Philosophy, I am sure is so far Convertible, that whatever the Sense represents, must at the same time be in the Intellect. And the Course Object of the Eye, refined into Thought and Idea.  
The Digression at last into the praise of our David is so far warrantable, as it has some Relation to the Poem. And so its Author can't be altogether said to Digress; it being but on a Theme, which the Subject of ours has so well handled, it offers only at a little piece of Imitation; and we have the assurance of a standing Maxim, that in Great attempts 'tis-some Honour to Miscarry: But if this won't Apologise, the Penman's hearty Loyalty will make the better Plea. He must still remember in all his Works, what he does in his Prayers and Drink, the King, and the serving up of the best Dish in the Rear is an Argument of Choice, not Error, and the end has a Proverbial Right of crowning every Work, which it can be more literally said to do with a Crowned Head.  
The Character of Sheba might be well pursued, whom justice has so well overtaken, and any satire against the Seditious, can be never unseasonable, that show themselves so ready to Rebel at all Seasons: though the Text does not mention that he was in Absolon's Rebellion, 'tis shrewdly to be presumed that he was: And as his Insurrection was after the Youths defeat, 'tis to be suspected too that this our Sheba might have created our David a second, and a worse Trouble: I am sure he Countenances the Character in his end, and Similes are obliged by the Rules of Logic to differ, to prevent their being the same; and should they happen not to be Cotemporaries in the Text, the contrary of which is rather there employed: Yet Verse need not be cramped with Chronology, though it bind an Historian.  
But for those that are so tender as to think it hardness to the Dead; they are only such as are concerned for his dying; Yet they sure may give us leave to side with the Government in a little satire on their Hero; that have invaded it so virulently for him in a Libel, and a Panegyric. And whatever Compassion they have for the Ashes of the Dead, none sure is bound to reverence the Dust of a Traitor.   

THE LAUREL A POEM.  

WITH Fruitless Pains, long did the labouring Muse  
Inspiring Themes, provoking Med'cins use,  
Till spent at last, it knew not what to choose.  
If some fierce Fancy made the fondling aim  
To reach a Warlike Heroes Deathless Fame,  
Injurious still to its own Noble choice,  
A blustering Hector ended all in noise.  
If gentle thoughts of Peace employed the Pen,  
To her still dulness down she sunk again.  
Of Love's Divinest Theme sometimes 'twas full,  
But would express it, most divinely Dull.  
The young unmanaged thing was still too fierce,  
Or tamely Lagged, along, in Lazy Verse,  
Of unflusht Poets, still the common Fate  
In their Raw Rhymes to be unfortunate:  
The young unfeathered Things must vainly try,  
If from their Nest, they see but others fly.  
Of all her Vain Essays she nought could make,  
Till for her Theme she did thy Praises take;  
In Vain invoked the Names of all the Nine;  
Mistaken Fool! and never thought on thine:  
Some Sparks of Wit, a faint and glimmering Fire,  
Would wink and look as if 'twould quite Expire.  
She Dryden called, and at thy sacred Name,  
Streight, the Dull Embers flashed into a Flame.  
Thus the mad Priests, with Zealous Error bawled,  
In Vain their Helpless, Drowsy Baal called,  
Big with their God, with Fury, and with Pain,  
The tortured Wretches like Poor Poets Strain,  
And both mistaken still, and both in Vain;  
The Sullen, Senseless Blocks, lay Dull, and Wet,  
And looked as loath to entertain the Heat;  
But when the Happier Prophet truly Prayed,  
Invoked Liviner, and more Powerful aid,  
A Vigorous Heat which from kind Heavens came,  
The smothering Altar Gilt, with Lambent Flame:  
Come Tuneful Souls, that would be well Inspired,  
And with exalted Fancy truly Fired;  
Your Female Sovereigns, once the mighty Nine;  
But now weak Powers, and not at all Divine,  
And can't prescribe to a Successive Line,  
Must be deposed their Government by you,  
And Salic Law obtain with Poets too,  
His Masculine Wit for Inspiration choose;  
The Muse's Master, makes the better Muse;  
Then go, young happy Bards, that near him sit;  
Go, Sing his Praise, that reap the Benefit,  
His Bounteous Largess, of Diffusive Wit,  
Your meanest Brother knows scarce him, or number yet.  
Forgive this bold attempt of Ignorance,  
While I relate the happy Work of chance.  
I'll tell thee Damon, thee dear Friend I'll tell,  
What to thy straggling Strephon late befell,  
How first he found of Verse the beaten Road,  
That led not to our Pan, but better God;  
Even better far, than what the Citts adore,  
When mine they know, they'll Worship theirs no more,  
Their Phoebus, God but of Presumptive Wit,  
His Deity was ne'er an Author yet;  
I'll tell you how your Shepherds thoughtless Breast,  
With Muse, and thought Divine was first possessed.  
You know we long, and that in Vain did play,  
Too long alas! we played the time away  
On Isis' Sunny Banks, supinely laid,  
(O! that my wand'ring thoughts had sooner strayed;)  
Her fertile Bounty Blest like Heaven's dew,  
And all was watered that but near her grew;  
To me her blasted Weed, to me alone,  
More than a Gideon's Miracle was shown,  
Our English Pindar's Fate by mine's outdone,  
Mine all the Laurel of Misfortune won:  
Peace injured Dust, ye Pious Ashes Peace,  
My greater Lot, will make your sufferings less:  
For Disappointments you abroad would Roam,  
Propitious Fate! to me still brought it home;  
Your Fleece lay dry, but where none e'er was wet,  
In Courts, among the Wretched, and the Great;  
But mine was fairly Cursed, even in the Muse's happy Seat.  
Flow on false Streams, for should I pass that way,  
And thou the same, that caused my Fruitless stay,  
At that ungrateful sight, I needs must burn;  
But I, no more, than thy past Waters shall return.  
My Faithful Swain, you know the Fatal Hour,  
We melting Souls, in parting Tears did pour,  
Such Tears, as when the Mournful Night was come,  
That Caesar's Exile left his Native Rome;  
Or those the Pious Prince, devoutly shed,  
When perjured Troy, the poor Remainder fled.  
But most thy loss my Friend, most that I moaned,  
Thy Faith for all her Perjuries atoned,  
With longing Eyes, we viewed your flying Plain  
Still rose the glowing Breast, and still in Vain,  
Still Love suppressed all Anger and Disdain,  
While quite behind the rising Hill she ran,  
We left her; but as Men the setting Sun,  
Which warms them still, and still does from them run,  
So set our cheering Light, and once our Trust;  
But false and failing, as she set she Blushed.  
Restless we many Lawns, and Meadows past,  
Nought pleased the Eye, or Pleasant to the Taste,  
Till our Cursed Fate, even with us weary grown,  
Grew kind, and showed a Plain, so like thine own,  
That thee my Damon, still I fancied there,  
And that but in a Dream, we parted were,  
It was the Muses other soft retreat;  
As Graceful still, though not so Gaudy seat,  
As many Tuneful Youths did there resort,  
As many Nobles Grace the learned Court;  
Wit for her own, its Proudest Palace claimed,  
Three Mighty Princes there Successive Reigned,  
There Spencer, Cowley, Dryden, Monarches sat,  
That now make up the Great Triumvirate,  
There still the forward Shoots we rising find,  
From the Prolific Seeds they left behind:  
There, Reverend Cham, the much loved Cowley's Stream,  
Famed for its self, but much more famed for him;  
Through the still Willow cuts his silent way,  
Grave like the learned Heads that by him stray;  
The peaceful Stream, no noisy Murmuring makes,  
His Neighbouring Muses for Example takes,  
And they in Kindness grace the gentle Stream  
With easy Praises, of its flowing Theme:  
Not with Proud Tiber foams up Golden Ore,  
And with Rich Sands, but Barrens all the Shore,  
Like Fertile Nile, his fattened Banks oreflows,  
And a much Richer Green, behind it Grows.  
Off from the spacious Valleys, humble Plain,  
The Tuneful Walk, of each Harmonious Swain,  
A Pleasant Hill, unforced, scarce seen to rise,  
At once invites, while it deludes your Eyes;  
There Faithful Coridon his Lambs did Feed,  
And kind Alexis watched the Wanton Kid;  
Oft the Kind Swains would let their Fleeces stray,  
And with their straggling Stranger spend the day.  
Show all th' Innocent Treasure of the Place,  
Where the Best Thicket, sweetest Hazle was,  
Showed all their Treasure, and presented too,  
The Juicy Blackberrie, the rasie Slow,  
The kinder Herbs, pressed by our ruder Feet,  
Officiously in mingled odours meet,  
You Damon know, we of't o'er Hybla went;  
But never Damon knew, so sweet a scent,  
Here courting Nature, laboured for to please,  
Stretched out herself, to spread Varieties:  
Here grew our Flocks loved Thyme, our Beeches stood;  
All that we use, for Physic or for Food,  
Such as our Old famed Chiron never knew,  
We cropped of all, and as we cropped they grew,  
They never die; but a while doubtful stand,  
Th' Immortal Harvest rises on the Reaper's Hand;  
'Tis just at least, that they should ever live,  
Whose powerful Virtue's Life itself can give,  
May mighty Pan, kind Swains! be as kind to you,  
And what I can't return, the Gods bestow,  
The Gods! that me in fruitful Eden placed,  
Only to drive their Exile out at last,  
The Gods! that thus unkindly force-farewell,  
That on its Theme they scarce will let me dwell,  
And where it would have fixed, (haded pleased fate)  
The travelling Muse would suffer but to bait.  
Restless, like things that to their Centre move,  
In an unknown, and undefined Love,  
We would Altars raise to Verse her unknown God;  
But still were Ignorant of his blessed Abode,  
We asked of all the Gods, and Nymphs we found  
Near sacred Isis, or Cham's hallowed Ground,  
We asked where the True God of Verse might Dwell?  
Their Ignorance, or their Malice would not tell.  
And can our Spot, Arcadia, yield a Stream,  
That dares to vie, much less outrival them?  
It does, and such an one as does surpass  
All what Earth, or e'er in Heaven was;  
And such alone, such as our Nobler Thameses  
Can Triumph over, those proud insulting Streams,  
Thee our famed Bard, doth his Example choose,  
Thy even Current guides his flowing Muse;  
Yet ne'er did what the Mightiest Muse could say,  
Thy Worth, more boundless than her thoughts display,  
When all that Tribute's paid, no Treasure's found,  
As thou thyself in thine own Ocean drowned;  
Why should O matchless Flood! the Common Deep,  
Mixed with the meaner Streams, thy Waters keep,  
Through the Tumultuous Main unmingled glide,  
Like the Fond Alpheus following of his Bride:  
Here Fate at length thy wand'ring Trojan cast,  
That Ilium of Misfortune fixed at last:  
Here 'twas he found that end of longing thought,  
The much loved Object he so long had sought:  
One Evening as he traced the winding Flood,  
And near the dangerous Tempter Musing stood,  
Where had the Amorous Boy, but gazing been,  
Tho none of his bewitching Face had seen,  
Th' enamoured Youth hath been as much undone,  
Not to his own, but her Embraces run.  
A gentle Breeze, as soft a sound did bring,  
Soft as the Notes the tuneful Angels Sing,  
With Ear, and Heart possessed, I forward move,  
The strong Impulse of Music, and of Love,  
When near the Bank, beneath a spreading shade,  
A Place that seemed for such soft sweetness made,  
Where the past Waves their coming Sisters Greet,  
In twining Circles one another meet.  
There sat—  
I'll tell thee Damon there I saw him sit,  
The Good, the Gay, the Glorious, God of Wit,  
His Golden Locks played with the wanton Wind,  
His Bow, and Quiver, careless hung behind,  
He now had found more dexterous Arts to kill,  
The feathered Arrows yielded to the Quill,  
His own sweet Lays he Sung; while every sound  
Gave present Death, or made Loves deeper Wound,  
Between his Buskined Legs his Harp he held;  
The rising Stream with Expectation swelled,  
So did our Breast, with the recoiling Flood,  
Bay back the Purple Channels of the Blood,  
The Busy Soul, but Eyes, and Ears, could ply;  
'Twas task enough, to inform th' Ear, and Eye,  
Much there he sung, and well, and played as much  
While Ravished Nature smiled at every touch,  
And bid her murmuring Streams to bear a part,  
Her tuneful Birds, to imitate his Art,  
The cockling waves, crowd in to hear him play,  
In pressing Kisses, kiss their Banks away.  
The listening Fish, in thronging shoals appear,  
Charmed with his Song, more mute and silent were.  
All that e'er Savage was about him came,  
The Wolf stood harmless by his Prey the Lamb▪  
Much here did his the Thracian Harp outgo,  
Then Men, and Beasts were not so wild as now.  
With greedy Looks I viewed the Object o'er,  
With Looks of Lovers when they most adore,  
I saw, and quick as nimble Sight there came,  
There flashed within my Breast, a rising Flame,  
Or a strange somewhat, that I could not Name.  
The kind Infection seized on every part,  
The Fire infused, glowed in the Youthful Heart,  
Your unexperienced Lad, unused to flame,  
Scarce Guest from whence the kind disorder came,  
Perplexed, yet pleased, a while he musing stood,  
Thought it the common fever of the Blood:  
Forgive that Impious thought! thou sacred Head,  
'Twas but his Innocence that Error bred.  
Straight undeceived, his Soul dissolved in Rhyme,  
In mighty Numbers, and in measured Time.  
In grateful Verse, returned due thanks to him,  
And her Inspirer, justly made her Theme:  
If from one single sight inspired by you!  
What will a Friendship, and Acquaintance do?  
Thus still as to th' Old Prophet's House they came,  
They all were fired with a Prophetic Flame:  
That Stem of jess, Famed, and Adored, by you,  
And senseless Saul, amongst the Prophets too,  
When with the first famed Seer, thou shalt fly,  
Winged with a fiery Chariot to the Sky,  
That blessed Abode, reserved for Him above,  
And sure the Lot, of Poetry, and Love,  
Tell me, O Father! (on the Barren Sand,)  
While you march up the Rich, and promised Land,  
How many gazing Sons, thou'lt labouring see,  
To catch th' inspiring Mantle dropped from thee?  
Be sure you leave the longed for thing below,  
thyself's too much on Heaven to bestow;  
I know, O reverend Bard! 'tis most unfit,  
Thy youngest Pupil in the School of Wit;  
Who at his Tutor's Feet, should gladly sit.  
Taught first to Scan, and number out his Verse,  
Should in bold Lines his Masters Praise rehearse.  
To your learned Labours all that's here I owe,  
Blame not the Gift, which you yourself bestow.  
This first Essay your Youth e'er Published yet,  
Flows from the Subjects, not the Author's Wit:  
Your Fruitful Harvest watched as Beggars do,  
Of Verse to glean a scattered Ear or two.  
You formed the little Clay, you tuned his Lays;  
Yet your own Work too weak to reach your Praise;  
Thy worth not to be reached, but wrongs thy Name,  
And thy high Fancy robs thee of thy Fame.  
Then what we cannot reach, thy works shall show,  
What none else can, thou for thyself must do.  
Thy own reaped Laurels, here shall crown thy Bays,  
I'll only Name them, for to name is Praise.  
If your harsh Maximin though writ in spite,  
Seemed soft and sweet, to each longing Appetite,  
What then must those too matchless Labours prove?  
Which you have writ in Kindness and in Love.  
Proud Spain had been Victorious long before,  
From her old World had forced the faithless Moor.  
Yet there her Worthies died like common Men;  
But here they live, with thine immortal Pen.  
There Valiant Arcos, yields to Time and Rust,  
But here he shines much Brighter in the Dust.  
What sullen Critic can, Almanzor blame,  
But what will Blast Old Homer's sacred Fame?  
His Hero stands unimitable still,  
The highest Pattern for the Proudest Quill:  
Yet near did thine to such vile Passions creep,  
The brave Almanzor's never seen to Weep.  
His peevish Greek to his fawning Mother cries,  
Till the fond Goddess rose to wipe his Eyes.  
If thine's too sullen, too severe expressed,  
That only makes the Character the best,  
Anger's th' only Virtue in an Heroe's Breast.  
If that the humble Muse, must stoop to tell,  
But sordid Truth, things meanly possible;  
Why then's that Greek, secured from powerful Steel,  
All Death-defyed, but in the fatal Heel?  
But as Spain's Victories in her old World won,  
For want of you, or dulness of her own,  
Had all been damned to dark Oblivion:  
So still her later Conquest of the new,  
Is only famed and aeternized by you.  
The dusty Victors, raised attend thy Stage,  
And o'er again their Barbarous Battles Wage.  
The slaughtered Indian's Ghosts again appear,  
Their Actions, Words, Their very thoughts are there.  
There the Rich Mines where all their Treasure lay,  
And all the Indies graspt-within a Play▪  
Thy Muse embarked, and touched upon Peru,  
Thou much more famed Columbus of the two,  
'Twas lost, and since found out again by you.  
Still sacred Verse was Worshipped as Divine,  
Each Age adored for Goddesses the Nine.  
But you have made her Truth's Divine express,  
And fully baffled the Schools Emptiness,  
Well may those Champions boldly stand their Ground,  
When but the Cause not Combatants they Wound:  
Divine polemics, tho' their Skill be Great,  
With our Lay Fencers too, can play a Cheat,  
He that Defends, but seems to doubt his Creed;  
And sharp debates like Thorns wound his Head,  
And make again the Mighty Saviour bleed.  
Thou Gift of Tongues▪ O had we still been mute,  
We Piety should Practise, not dispute.  
Kind, Reverend Levi, let us but believe,  
We ask no more, and you no more should give.  
we'll be attended, we'll hear you Preach and Pray;  
But for God sake don't dispute your God away.  
Thou Dire Artificer of this Zealous Rage,  
Thou Pest of this, and the preceding Age▪  
That fought with Sword of Spirit and of Steel,  
In spilling Souls, and Blood infallible.  
To thy cursed Pen we owe these Pious Tears,  
Religions Wounds, and all the Nations Wars.  
Our Levites forced on the defensive part;  
Put by his Thrusts, aimed at the Church's Heart.  
Yet still the bold Assassin did persist,  
In's Murder prospered once, and once he Mist.  
With jewish Worship, offered all in Blood,  
But against his last attempt our Zion stood.  
With faltering Nerves, yet grasped his feeble Sword,  
And dying fought the Battles of the Lord.  
Still more Profane the Wretch assailed the Muse,  
As if he, all that's sacred would abuse.  
The Tuneful Smec, once left his hungry Prose,  
In Doggrel twanged his Calvin through the Nose.  
Well may you teach his Renegado Priests,  
When their dull Master aimed so high as this.  
But while I thus Religious Truths would tell,  
Th' attempt but injures you who've done't so well.  
While you but teach Religion to the Lay,  
The Cassock, and the Gown, are taught to pray.  
Our Pious Herbert made it hold to Sense;  
But thy Djoinity is Eloquence.  
With many Heads the Rabble Monster rose,  
And thought no force its fury could oppose.  
Lampoon's, dull Libels, Satyrs, Pasquil's, Jests,  
The dangerous Weapons of the Rebel Beast.  
Your Baxt— rs, Sh—wlls, owen's, Hunts, and Cares,  
For Penitents he Charitably spares.  
Led forth the Host, well Disciplined for Wars,  
Thou and thy Sheva, soon the Combat chose,  
Soon crushed them Dead in Loyal Verse and Prose.  
Ingenious Souls! whom Loyalty inspired,  
Beyond what Wit, or Wine, or Woman fired.  
The scribbling Fops, soon found themselves out-writ,  
And rallied with more formidable Wit:  
They feared the Common Fate of perishing Print,  
And stamped more lasting Treason in the Mint:  
But Medal, Motto, Man, proved all a Cheat,  
The Silver like the rest was Counterfeit:  
Yours truly showed the perfect traitor's Face,  
A Monument more lasting than their Brass.  
These works all other Pens have far outgone,  
Yet you yourself, are by yourself out-don.  
No travelling Muse, will e'er beyond it run,  
Verse fixed her Pillars in thine Absalon.  
You o'er both Worlds the Mighty Conqueror Reign,  
yourself's subdued, 'twas all that did remain:  
Well might the brave Pellaean Youth lament,  
When Victory and the World no further went.  
Thy Pen has reaped more Laurels than his Sword,  
And Fate no further Conquest can afford.  
The Mantuan Swan mounts with the Theban Quill,  
Yet in his lofty flight, seems humble still.  
In such sweet Notes doth flying life renew,  
As if his latest Breath he always drew.  
The charmed Soul though fled he back would bring,  
Long may he live, but still as dying Sing.  
'Tis here he ' has reached the Mighty Mountain's height,  
And triumphs in unimitable flight.  
Here on its flourishing Head he pitying sits,  
The panting, rising, labouring, crowd of Wits.  
Long stood the famed, high Trophy, Cooper's Hill,  
The Muses left their own, and there would dwell.  
Had still o'retoped in Bravery, and Pride,  
And dared the flight, of all the World beside.  
I saw this Glorious Banner you display,  
The doubtful Denham yield at last the day,  
While you true Verses standard bore away.  
A Deed scarce equalled by the Royal Pole,  
That shares in thy great Name, and greater Soul:  
When through the meaner crowd with scorn he flew,  
And down the Proudest of their Banners drew.  
The Shouts of Europe Blest th' Important Day,  
You've routed Verse as Barbarous as they.   

Here fix faint Muse, thy Theme too fast will flow,  
Too great for Words, his rising worth will grow.  
Too much of easy Praise, may'as much molest,  
With all his Laurels Crowned he'd be oppressed.  
The Roman Virgin's Fate, would be his Lot,  
Crushed with the weighty Prizes she had got.  
And since the Muse more blunt, much duller grows,  
And in thy Praise, her Imperfection shows:  
I'll turn her point, and force her on thy Foes,   

And first thou Viper raise thy Venomed Head,  
My Pen shall reach thee, though from Justice fled.  
Thou who didst damn thy Monarches right Divine,  
And mad'st it Treason to defend His Line.  
Thou who the Prelate's side didst falsely choose,  
That with their Name thou mightst the Church abuse;  
But still what moved thee to Blaspheme the Muse?  
In Vain thy Rage, on thee she'll never smile,  
And turn thy Pedants, to the Poet's Style:  
Not one loose Word does on his Stage appear,  
But what the perfonated Thing must bear.  
The worst of Ills can't there be done too well,  
Who would plunge in, that saw the draught of Hell?  
Who when black Treason's drawn to Life upon't,  
Would praise the Traitor, or commend an H—nt.  
The sullen Sot, makes no Distinction here,  
'Twixt the Pure Vice, and naked Character:  
Touched with the Sight of his own Factious Face,  
The fretting Fool, in spite would break the Glass.  
Can the Wretch Censure thy Divinest rage?  
Yet Blasphemies forgive in every Page,  
Of the ranting, roaring, Monster of the Stage?  
His Pious Namesakes Tom's Religious Theme,  
Compendium to swear by, and Blaspheme,  
The Life, the Soul, of Devil, and Don john,  
Their Doctor ne'er described so well his Don:  
While Popish Rapes, and Murders, acted were,  
And all by Spanish Pilgrims landed here.  
'Twas Innocent, his Lewdness they forgive,  
The Poet's Plot too turned a Narrative.  
These haughty Devils, known but by their Paw,  
Think 'tis all Saint, till stoop, and see the Flaw.  
So the proud Juno's Bird, struts, spreads her Train,  
Till the black Feet, pull down her Pride again:   

Next Rhyming, Rattling Doeg should come in;  
But that Repentance, must atone for Sin:  
And the severest Morals pardon still,  
An Ignorance that is Invincible.  
He scarce designed the Satyrs that he writ,  
His Headstrong Muse, the Jade had got the Bit,  
And rattled on with neither Fear, or Wit.  
He next his Princes, must thy Pardon sue,  
To Sovereign Verse he was a Rebel too:  
Let the Relenting Soul but only live,  
To learn thou like thy Prince canst soon forgive.   

But let thy stubborn Ogg be ne'er forgot,  
Whose drowsy Verse lurks deep, as still their Plot  
In something's understood, in something's not.  
He from Wit's Empire, and his Princes flew,  
Or rather, Wit ashamed from him withdrew.  
Hail Mighty Guts! for Drink the Standard made,  
Thou swilling Pensioner to the Brewer's Trade.  
Go with thy Master's Horses, feed on Grains,  
As theirs thy Massy Guts, as theirs thy Brains.  
We envy not thy Greatness; still drink on,  
Till two-legged Hogshead swell up to a Tun,  
And Famous Heidelberg itself outdone.  
Go then invoke thy rotting Patrons Tap,  
Instead of Muse, to vent the flowing sap.  
Thy better Midwife, and with lesser Pain,  
Brings forth both Excrements, of Guts, and Brain;  
You would swear to see him sordid satire write.  
The Poet Rhymed, but Doctor did indite,  
Tom, and his Titus, both one Province chose,  
This Rascals it in Verse, and that in Prose.  
If not to both disabled, Whore and Fight,  
Or any thing we'll grant him but to write.  
Let him sing well his Dogrells, play them too;  
we'll give to him, as to the Devil his due.  
But who with docile Beasts would Art dispute,  
The Bear and Fiddle, Sh—ll and his Lute.  
Such rugged Monsters in a Smithfield Booth,  
(Where aught to be the Poet's Stage in Truth.)  
Act, show at every Fair, for usual price,  
And Tuneful Sh—lls seen for Pence a piece.  
But as in every kind we something see,  
Graced with Perfection in more high Degree.  
His frightened Dam, ran trembling from her kind,  
And left the shapeless Lump unlicked behind:  
The forced Neglect beyond all natural Care,  
Made him the more complete, and better Bear;  
To Dulness damned, and Faction since he fell,  
To perfect all the Punishment of Hell,  
His stubborn Error, is incurable.  
His spongy, sappy Soul, would yield to thee,  
But's bodied up by Trunk of sturdy Tree.  
Your Loyal Pen attempts with fruitless stroke,  
With Spriggs of Bays, for to chastise an Oak.  
Your too keen satire, does oblige your Foe,  
As harmless Tom's, kind dulness still does you.  
Your Fleckno's kind, (tho' still severe enough)  
It Arms him Cap-a-pe with Nonsense Proof.  
He fears no more, of hardened dulness full,  
He is not, will not, can't be made more dull.   

Leave then the Mud, that can't be made more mean,  
And praise, what can't be praised enough, again;  
Search, mighty Pan, round all your tuneful Plain,  
Try the sweet Pipe, of each Melodious Swain.  
Let the fair Sylvia Judge, and kindly prove,  
If her dear Damon's Lays she more could love.  
she'll make herself his Prize, and him her choice,  
Her Eyes, her Heart, her Soul too, for his Voice.  
In your own rural Eclogue he excels,  
'Tis all Arcadia, wheresoever he dwells,  
Say God of Verse, Judge of Immortal Wit,  
Say, who of all your inspired Men more fit,  
To have the highest place, and next you sit?  
Speak, envious God, though he your Rival be,  
For if you're Just, you'll boldly say 'tis he.   

Kind Nature! to whose Liberal Objects we,  
Poor Common Rhymers must obliged be;  
herself's obliged, and made more natural by thee.  
Such genuine Thoughts through all thy Fancy move,  
Described by thee, she's with herself in love.  
She with thy Muse doth weep, and with her smile,  
Pleased with thy Treacherous Pen, herself beguile:  
The willing Sun lends his Officious ray,  
And seems more bright when you describe the day,  
The tuneful Birds, in Consort with thee sing,  
Thy ' Immortal Verse makes their Eternal Spring.  
If peaceful Night's still Theme does Lull thy Head,  
Kind humouring Nature, hushes all to Bed;  
Draws to the Life, the silent Chambers of the dead.  
The drowsy tops of Mountains nod with thee,  
And all the stubborn Oaks which on them be.  
All things so closely hug themselves in Night,  
As if they feared for you, approaching Light.  
So the famed Artist, with such natural Grace,  
Framed Artful Heavens in his sphere of Glass.  
The wand'ring Planets, their wild Mazes tripped,  
The fixed Stars their regular Motions kept.  
The spangling Orbs moved plain to every sense,  
In each you saw the very Intelligence,  
Through the bright Art, did natural glory shine.  
And all was Humane still, and all Divine.  
The Jealous Gods, to see their rivalled Will,  
Mocked, or outdone by frail and Human skill:  
Mongst all his Schemes, for fear he should create,  
By Death resolved the doubtful Problem of his Fate.   

Famed Bards do tell at Numbers powerful call,  
Th' enlivened Stones, danced to the Theban Wall.  
That Statues, Stones, of living Beasts could make,  
And tamely Savage Nature to forsake:  
Of the sweet Lyre, that with its charming String,  
From Merciless Waves, could milder Monsters bring.  
So do thy Mighty Lines, and powerful Art,  
Such Life, such Soul; to senseless things impart.  
Thy Gentle Verse leaves nought in Nature wild,  
Even Man the Mightier fiercer Beast is mild.   

Doubly secured, of never dying Fame,  
Eternal in thy Soul, and in thy Name.  
Besides that Lectured Life of Grave Divines,  
Thy Immortality lies in thy Lines:  
But O! for some Immortal Hand that can,  
Make thee live too, even in thy outward Man.  
Thy Pen, which only could, has drawn thy Mind;  
But where for this, shall we a Pencil find?  
Famed Vandike's Dead, and Lely is no more,  
And Fate for this, has left but one in store.  
The Matchless Ryley is for this designed,  
For this kind Fates, ye Ryley left behind.  
See the bold piece, with its own Object strive,  
It strives for Verse, and would be more alive.  
See all the Muses drawn within his Face,  
Or Features that would all the Muse's Grace.  
It grieves me that there any thing should be,  
Beside thyself to give such Life to Thee.  
Then only give to him that makes thee live,  
What my poor Mortal Pen can never give.  
Give him the Life, that triumph o'er the Grave,  
The Life that Cowley to his Vandike gave.  
Weak Artless Hands, can Postures, Dresses draw;  
From their loose Strokes, those loser Figures flow,  
Give me that Master's Hand, that Art Divine,  
That shows my Face, and shows it to be mine.  
All that proud Athens boasts, or stately Rome,  
Does from their Poets, or their Painters come.  
Here both conspire to make one Masterpiece,  
The Pride and Shame of Italy and Greece.  
Hail, sacred Pair, with equal Glory shine,  
Both like your first Originals Divine.  
The first famed Bard delivered us the Law,  
And Luke that Gospel Penned, as well could draw.   

Indulge one Labour more, to crown thy Bays,  
Pardon the weak attempt of David's praise:  
The Muse won't deviate much in erring Verse,  
If she with thine, Thy David's Praise rehearse.  
She take for hers, thee and thy Noblest Theme,  
And crown thy Laurel with his Diadem.  
True Sovereign Wit, Reigns in our Monarch's mind,  
And as of Old, the King and Prophets joined.  
The bright Celestial Pair, she'll proudly sing,  
The sweetest Poet, and the mildest King.  
Nor should presumptuous Lines, profanely dare,  
So high a worth, such humble Verse declare.  
Nor should my Numbers cease of you to tell,  
Though 'twere for one, you praise; and love so well:  
But that to Name him here with you, is praise,  
And with you named, he yours will higher raise,  
Your Numbers that extolled so well his Name,  
They reached almost, what none will e'er, his Fame:  
And sure thy Muse had reached in Matchless flight,  
Even his, and heavens unapproached height.  
Had reached his praise, above all Mortal Wit,  
Had the vast distance not been infinite.  
'Twas want of Words, and not thy fancy failed,  
Weak Language sunk, as rising thought prevailed.  
In Vain our Humble Dust does aim so high,  
In Vain the Wren would at her Eagle fly:  
Yet I inspired by you, poor little 1,  
Beg but the Fate of Aesop's Foolish Fly.  
While on your Wheel, she proudly rides, she must  
Raise sure a little, though not all the Dust.  
Tho your bright Chariot all the Prize has won,  
Has won that race, that none but you can run.  
Yet when the Trojan Prince set out, we find  
The little Boy run panting still behind.  
Just so your painful Fool, would follow too,  
And somewhat like his Mighty Father do.   

O! that my thoughts could rise, but with my Heart,  
And to these Lines its glowing heat impart.  
To sing his praises in a purer flame.  
Then what e'er yet from love or fancy came.  
Thou Stem of jess, Thou Royal Martyr's Heir,  
By Miracles made Heaven's chiefest Care.  
Thy Birth, not Right alone, was proved Divine.  
The Gods revealed their Will, with wont sign;  
Th' Almighty spoke from Heaven, (Be thou mine.)  
From East, to West, thy glorious Birth was famed,  
Thy Saviour, and thyself one Star proclaimed.  
Our stubborn Albion, had her stiff-neck jew,  
Who made thee share even in his sufferings too.  
O'er Hell thou triumphest, with thy conquering God,  
Down in the Dust the Serpent's Head hast trod.  
The cursed, the false Achitophel, is dead,  
The Viper ne'er will raise it's bruised Head.  
The cunningest Beast of all the spacious Field,  
Whose tempting Tongue, more than his Sires beguiled.  
Not only taught the People, Gods to be,  
To taste the Golden Fruit of Majesty;  
But quite cut down the sacred and forbidden Tree.   

Thy Virgin Isle to her own Rocks was bound,  
Quite naked, helpless, dangers all around.  
Her Fate, the Victim waited every Hour,  
The Rebel Monster, ready to devour.  
From you and Heaven, came the winged aid,  
The Monster vanquished, and unbound the Maid.  
Be you that Emblem that adorns your Breast,  
The Genius of your Isle is there expressed;  
But you yourself, still represent it best.  
What will thy stubborn, stiff-necked Israel have?  
More than a King can give, or Subject crave?  
What more can God, or her own David do?  
Their Canaan flows with Milk and Honey too.  
With Mercies cursed! Blessed Judgements Gods bestow,  
From Bliss we date that Ilium of our woe.  
The pampered jesuruns only far too well,  
Fleshed with Sedition, fattened to Rebel.  
They loathe their Manna, and for Quails must call,  
Tho the same Judgement once oretook them all.  
On ours a Plague, as great Devourer prayed,  
And while the Meat, yet in their Mouths, they died.  
A Famine's sure the Rabble's safer food,  
The Cannibals with Flesh, still thirst for Blood:  
Tho on blessed Canaan's Soil, securely placed,  
They all the Rich, and promised Land possessed:  
Corn, Wine, and Oil, it's plentiful increase,  
And all dissolved in Luxury, and ease.  
Still the Cursed Tribes their hungry Egypt seek,  
Their fulsome fleshpots and unsavoury Leek.  
Is then so lovely Egypt's direful Fate?  
That all her Judgements too must Plague our State.  
And shall this Land more Monstrous Serpents breed?  
Must Albion too, in Purpled Rivers bleed?  
Must all the Muddy-race, the Toadpool Train,  
Croak in our Royal Palaces again?  
Those first Originals of our copied Prayers,  
For modelling Kings the first Petitioners:  
Kings soft, and mild, unknowing to obey,  
The Tyrant Stork would here but justly pray.  
Thy Judgements, Mighty jove, most just forbear,  
Avert but what they more deserve, than fear,  
Thy gentle Reign had Banished hate and fear.  
On Love they surfeited, free as their Common Air.  
Yet needs would fear, because resolved to hate,  
They'd fear those Ills that they themselves create;  
Tyrant, and Slave, those Bugbears of the State.  
They say their Prince too, must our Laws obey,  
What Fool can fear then Arbitrary sway?  
If that they feared he against those Laws would go,  
Then sure might thank him, for Declaring no;  
But nought alas, can such vain Fears remove;  
Where stubborn hate, disdains all pliant Love:  
They thought Ierusalem's Charter tottering stood,  
Till like the Great one too, 'twas sealed in Blood.  
For this Hell's Agents compassed Earth, and Sky,  
Deep in their Plots, in their Ambition high.  
But Heaven their chiefest Factor sent to Hell,  
Yet Treason sunk not with Achitophel.  
As when oppressing Fate approaches nigher,  
Our Fears, our chiefest Courage will require.  
In such a State the only Safety's left,  
To think ourselves of hoping it bereft:  
So bold Rebellion was the expedient found,  
And Murders must maintain forced Treasons ground:  
Too deep engaged, they safely can't retire,  
And sinking hopes, through much despair rise higher.  
The Dire Artificers now against Fate decreed,  
Heaven now no more will let her Monarches bleed:  
But quench in their own Blood, those flames they've fed,  
With Holy Oil of an anointed Head.  
No more false Gloss, can now black Treason paint,  
That Devil's Paw does still betray the Saint,  
No more shall specious Words your Gild conceal,  
Associate now's in English to Rebel.  
That Liberty, that harped on your harsh Strings,  
But clamorous Licence for to Murder Kings.  
The Royal Heir must be from's Vineyard thrown,  
Only to make th' Inheritance your own,  
And Foreign jebusites, to Death you doom.  
For David's Murder, that you plot at home:  
No more the murmuring Tribes shall keep it low,  
But willing Shekels to his Treasure throw.  
No more ungiving Sanhedrims repay,  
The thankless power on them he threw away.  
Make their Prince give, till he could give no more,  
Then cursedly upbraid his being poor.  
To such he ne'er could grant enough and Live,  
His Life, his Soul, must be the Donative:  
See Iudah's Loyal Band comes up from far,  
Led on by David's most auspicious Star.  
That Bright, and Glorious Senate will appear;  
That Sun dispel those Clouds of hate and fear.  
With Loyal suffrage, strike the Faction dead,  
And make the Crown sit soft on David's Head.  
With Law Associate, Loyalty combine,  
Not to exclude, but to defend the Line:  
They like Ierusalem's Council shall repeal,  
The Votes of an aspiring Common-weal.  
Th' Almigty Nods, The willing Angels come,  
Distraction, Discord; fly their wont home:  
The Heavenly Host again their Requiem sing,  
Peace to the Forth, peace to our Land they bring.  
Black Treason's crushed, and Plots shall be no more,  
Fair Albion shines, much whiter than before.   

In Vain their Treason's thought to fly the light,  
In vain thy Foes to save themselves by flight:  
Heaven both detects, and punishes thy Foes,  
And dare not trust thy mercy even to those.  
But justest Vengeance Sheba still pursued,  
Sheba the Man of Belial, and of blood.  
A dangerous Viper, of th' old Serpents breed,  
In all but in his cunning did exceed:  
As well the perjured Sheba could Rebel,  
Tho not so wisely as Achitophel:  
More bold in Treason, though in Plots less wise,  
He dared to do, what th' other did advise:  
Th' old Tempter first the staggering Youth beguiled,  
But this the Devil that him truly spoiled:  
This through the Land the Treason Trumpet blue,  
To Fops, and Fools, the weaker Pageant show:  
With Faction more than Lust, or Sword command,  
With that he Poxed, and Bullyed all the Land:  
With her Inventions, wanton Israel whored,  
But Loyal judah Loved her Lawful Lord:  
That Bichri's Son, more Harm to David wrought,  
More harm than e'er by Absalon was sought.  
In Vain for Succour to strong Abel fled,  
No Walls alas! can guard a Traitor's head:  
Demanded once they soon their Elders call,  
As soon consent to throw it o'er the Wall:  
Big with their acted guilt, and guilt to come,  
To Plot abroad the Rebels fly their home;  
But still in vain they do thy Fall conspire,  
In Vain the Rebels to strange Lands retire:  
Since willing Nations their Assistance lend,  
From East to West thy flying Traitors send:  
Since Belgia thine, not France's power dreads,  
And wisely pays thee Tribute with their Heads.  
Well may she Fear the Judge of War and Peace,  
Lord of the Land, and Master of the Seas.   

Thou Faith's Defender, and our Muse's shield,  
Verse lost her Standard, when you lost the Field.  
She still maintained her ground, while you, your Cause,  
But sunk with you, Religion and the Laws.  
It suffered with that Age, and by its Crimes,  
Confused, and mangled lay in barbarous Rhymes:  
By Botching, Butchering Shd— ls of the Times.  
The Regicides of Sovereign Verse ruled all,  
Old Fleckno Reigned the Laureate at White-Hall:  
We exiled wit and Prince together mourned  
Till Banished both, more gloriously returned.  
With Strange Surprise, to all the wondering Age,  
Well tempered Art, teemed from disordered Rage:  
And Reigned the Mighty Monarch of the Stage.  
With their Old Fury long mad Poets writ,  
Till solid Dryden, Judgement joined to wit.   

Forgive, Great Bard, if the least foggy praise,  
Cloud a clear Fame, that shines with brightest Rays.  
Th' Officious Rindness of an Artless Friend,  
Sometimes will Libel, what it would commend.  
I can't debase your Fame, or truly raise,  
Too wise to flatter, and too weak to praise.  
Pardon but once Presumptuous Folly passed,  
And what's my first Offence shall be the last.   
FINIS.