AN EPISTOLARY POEM TO John Dryden, Esq Occasioned by the much Lamented DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE james Earl of Abingdon.  
By WILLIAM PITTIS', Late Fellow of New-College in Oxon.  
Quanto rectius hoc, quam tristi laedere versu  
Pantolabum scurram, Nomentanumque Nepotem?  Hor. 
— Cadit & Ripheus justissimus unus  
Qui fuit in Teuc●●● & servantissimus aequi.  Aen. Lib. 2. 
LONDON, Printed for H. Walwyn, at the Three Legs in the Poultry, over against the Stock-market. 1699.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE MONTAGUE Earl of ABINGDON, Baron NORREYS, etc.  
My Lord,  
THO' I could have wished that the Gentleman to whom the following Papers are directed, had prevented me in the Trouble I am now giving You; yet I cannot but lay hold on this Mournful Occasion, to acquaint the World what a Share it has in Your Lordship's Loss, and what a Concern the Muses should have shown, who have seen it so visible in Your Lordship.  
A general Silence indeed shows the Consternation to be also General; our Silence among those whose very Sorrows should speak, Silence among Men of a Profession who are not used to hold their Peace in Excesses of joy or Grief, is much more a Crime than an Inadvertency; and if I am late in my Offerings to the Memory of the deceased Noble Lord, Your Lordship's Father, it is out of the respect I bear to it, having been in hopes some Pen or other of a more established Reputation would have acknowledged itself a Debtor, tho' it could never discharge the Debt, and have made an Attempt towards the Description of those Virtues which no Describer can do that Justice to which They deserve.  
The University near which He lived, and the City in which He died, had both of 'em Gentlemen, who being of Merit Themselves, were capable of setting it out in Others; and if both had employed Themselves in recommending those Virtues to our Practice, which are so deserving of our Esteem, they had not laid under the Imputation of being idle, as well as ungrateful.  
Their Remissness, My LORD, has added Wings to my Diligence; and tho' I am sensible Your Lordship's Father's Character is fallen into ill hands, yet rather than not say something of One, who deserves to have so much said of Him, I must put in for a Petitioner to Your Lordship, and beg Your Acceptance of a Present, which has nothing but the Zeal of its Donor to recommend it to Your Lordship's Hands. That the Great Man who gives Being to the following Poem, by losing His own, was Loyal to His PRINCE, and Affectionate to His COUNTRY, unwearied in His Alms, and incessant in His Prayers, deserving the Highest Honours from His KING, yet retired from COURTS to commune with His GOD, are Excellencies worthy of His Muse whom the following Poem is persuading to the Recital of 'em; and there will want nothing to add to their Perfection, and crown 'em with their due Commendations, after I shall have said, He was Your Lordship's FATHER. For to give Being to a Gentleman who is exercised in preserving that of others, is as great as if the Noble Lord continued to preserve them Himself; and what was reckoned as a Compliment in the Poet to the greatest of Emperors, viz. 
— Nec enim de CAESARIS acts  
Vllum Majus opus, quam quod Pater extitit Hujus.  may be very applicable to Your Lordship, and received for a Truth.  
But I am running into the Character of a Gentleman, who has Merit enough to lose me in it; I shall therefore only add my Wishes. That Your Lordship may continue the Pursuit of those Paths, which Your Lordship's Deceased Father has marked out for You, That Your Lordship's Noble Brothers may still practise those Virtues, which They have already given such Specimens of: And that Your Lordship may be an Honour to that NAME which has furnished us with as many Instances of its being Illustrious, as it has Owners, is the hearty Prayer of,  
My LORD, Your Lordship's most Humble, and most Obedient Servant, William Pittis'.   

THE PREFACE.  
AS I have no great reason to boast of the Excellencies of the following Poem, so the Reader must excuse me if I do not enter into Confessions of its Faults, and prevent a great many Gentlemen whose time will lie upon their hands, if deprived of the Satisfaction of being employed in finding them out themselves. But I can justly tell them, That I have not left so much room for an Animadverter, as I did on the Epistle to Mr. Tate on the Taking of Namur; and have so far agreed with the Civil Gentleman who past his Censure on the Poems relating to that Subject, that if he continues in the same Humour of being hard to be pleased, he has more reason to be ashamed of it now than he had then.  
In short, The Management of this is agreeable to the nature of an Epistle; and I have endeavoured to suit the Majesty of my Subject with a Turn of Verse, which tho' it does not come up to it, is not servily creeping or affected: I have all along continued speaking to the Person it is directed to, and have been as careful of running into Excursions as possible. Several Expressions are indeed Synonimous; and tho' I might have said a great deal more of the Noble Persons whom I have had occasion to speak of, I could have wished I had said less, unless it was more deserving their Acceptance. And tho' I am not an Author confirmed enough to carry my Copies about to Gentleman's Chambers in order to pick up Amendments and Corrections, as the Practice is now of our most received Writers; yet I must in justice to myself, and the Gentleman who has favoured me with its Perusal, tell the World, it had been much worse had not Mr. Dryden acquainted me with its Faults. Nothing indeed was so displeasing to him as what was pleasing to myself, (viz.) this own Commendations; and if it pleases the World, the Reader has no one to thank but so distinguishing a judgement which has occasioned it.  
I might here lay hold of the Opportunity of returning the Obliging Compliments he sent me by the Person who brought the Papers to him before they were Printed; but I may chance to call His judgement in question by it, which I always counted infallible but in his kind Thoughts of me; and therefore refer the Reader to the Poem in order to see whether he'll be so good-natured as to join his Opinion with the Compliment the Gentleman aforesaid has honoured me with.   

AN EPISTOLARY POEM TO John Dryden, Esq Occasioned by the DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE james Earl of Abingdon.  
WHEN Heroes yield to Sickness and the Grave,  
And pay that Life to Nature, Nature gave;  
The Muse attending on their Hearse should wait,  
To mourn the daring Enterprise of Fate,  
And Tears unceasing, and her Sighs unfeigned,  
Should tell what Earth has lost, and Heaven has gained.  
But Oh! what Muse, what Numbers can disclose  
Our present Loss, and speak our present Woes?  
Even Isis' Sons (and Isis' Sons have lays  
Deserving Fame, and which Desert can praise)  
Silent they stand, and with their Harps unstrung,  
Adore that Worth, which should adored be sung,  
Grief! powerful Grief prevailing on their Sense,  
Permits them not to sing the Fate's Offence.  
But Thou, Great Bard, whose hoary Merits claim  
The laureate's Place, without the laureate's Name;  
Whose Learned Brows, encircled by the Bays,  
Bespeak their Owner's, and their Giver's Praise;  
Thou, Dryden, shouldst our Loss alone relate,  
And Heroes mourn, who Heroes canst create.  
Amidst thy Verse the Wife already shines,  
And owes her Virtues, what she owes thy Lines.  
Down from above the Saint our Sorrows views,  
And feels a second Heaven in thy Muse;  
Whose Verse as lasting as her Fame shall be,  
While thou shalt live by Her, and she by Thee.  
Oh! let the same immortal numbers tell  
How just the Husband lived, and how he fell,  
What Vows when living for his Life were made,  
What Floods of Tears at his Decease were paid;  
And since their deathless Virtues were the same,  
Equal in Worth, alike should be their Fame.  
But thou withdrawn from us, and public Cares,  
Flatterest thy Age, and feedest thy growing Years,  
Supine, unmoved, regardless of our Cries,  
Thou mindest not where Thy Noble Patron lies:  
Wrapped in Death's Icy Arms within his Urn,  
Behold Him sleeping, and beholding mourn:  
Speechless That Tongue for wholesome Counsels famed,  
And without sight those Eyes for Lust unblamed,  
Bereaved of Motion are Those Hands, which gave  
Alms to the Needy, did the Needy crave.  
Ah! such a Sight, and such a Man Divine,  
Does only call for such a Hand as Thine!  
Great is the Task, and worthy is Thy Pen,  
The best of Bards should sing the best of Men.  
Awake, arise, from Thy Lethargic State,  
Mourn Britain's Loss, tho' Britain be ingrate;  
Nor let the sacred Mantuan's Labours be  
A Ne plus ultra to Thy Fame, and Thee.  
Thy Abingdon, if once Thy glorious Theme,  
Shall vie with His Marcellus for Esteem,  
Tears in his Eyes, and Sorrow in his Heart  
Shall speak the Reader's Grief, and Writer's Art:  
And, tho' this barren Age does not produce  
A great Augustus to reward Thy Muse;  
Tho' in this Isle no good Octavia reigns,  
And gives Thee Virgil's Praemium for His Strains:  
Yet Dryden, for a while forsake Thy Ease,  
And quit Thy Pleasures that Thou more may'st please.  
Apollo calls, and every Muse attends  
With every Grace, who every Beauty lends.  
Sweet is Thy Voice, as was Thy Subject's Mind;  
And like His Soul Thy Numbers unconfined,  
Thy Language easy, and Thy flowing Song,  
Soft as a Vale, but like a Mountain strong.  
Such Verse as Thine, and such alone, should dare  
To charge the Muses with their present Care.  
Thine, and the Cause of Wit, with speed maintain,  
Lest some rude Hand the sacred Work profane,  
And the Dull, Mercenary, Rhyming Crew,  
Rob the Deceased and Thee, of what's your due.  
Such Fears as these, (if Duty cannot move,  
And make Thy Labours equal to Thy Love)  
Should hasten forth thy Verse, and make it show  
What Thou, Mankind, and every Muse does owe;  
As Abingdon's High Worth exalted shines,  
And gives, and takes a Lustre from thy Lines,  
As Eleonora's pious Deeds revive  
In Him, who shared Her Praises when alive.  
So the stern Greek, whom nothing could persuade  
To quit the rash Engagements which he made,  
With sullen Looks, and Helmet laid aside,  
He soothed his Anger, and indulged his Pride;  
Careless of Fate, neglectful of the Call  
Of Chiefs entreating till Patroclus' Fall.  
Roused by his Death His Martial Soul could bend,  
And lose his whole Resentments in his Friend;  
As to the dusky Field he winged his Course,  
With Eyes impatient, and redoubled Force,  
And wept him dead in thousands of the Slain,  
Whom living, Greece had begged his Sword in vain.  
One Friend in Tears that shade could only boast  
And Grecia gained, in what Achilles lost.  
But Oh! the Glorious Dead, to whom we pay  
Our present Grief, and fruitless Sighs convey,  
He! so his Worth demands, and Virtues crave,  
Is wept by Thousands, who could Thousands save.  
Yonder He lies, ah! what has Albion done,  
To be thus punished in Her Noble Son?  
Round Him his Orphan Children Pensive stand,  
And Sadness reigns, and deepest Griefs command,  
Brave Manly Sorrow sits upon their Face,  
And speaks at once their Duty, and their Race.  
A Father's Death for Lamentations cries,  
But what that asks, a Father's Life denies;  
Their Hearts are acting what their Eyes forbear,  
Remembering what He was, and what They are.  
Amidst the rest, superlative in Care  
Erects Himself, his Wealth and Honour's Heir,  
To Heaven He looks, for Heaven alone could take  
A Soul like His of bright Aetherial make,  
And argues with its Laws, and blames those Powers,  
Who suffered Fate to thwart His Vows and Ours:  
As His Religion with His Duty strives,  
And He bewails for lost, what He revives.  
The Sons described, the Brother's next appear,  
And Leeds and Lindsey pensive Sable wear.  
The first the Prop, and Atlas of the State,  
Tho' now resigned the Charge, and pompous Weight;  
And who had still (could murmuring Britain's know  
What grateful Minds to their Protectors owe)  
Bestowed his Counsels and pursued his Toils,  
Had we returned his Labours with our Smiles.  
But We, to do this thankful Nation right,  
Hug the deliverance, the Deliv'rer slight,  
And use such odd Acknowledgements as show  
Not what We take, but what the Givers owe.  
Grant Heaven, the Pilot gone, that Albion's Realm  
May never want His Guidance at her Helm;  
Round Her may no rough Storms or Billows beat,  
To force Him from His Leisure, and retreat;  
Tho' much I fear, and prescious is the Muse,  
That She shall court that Help we could refuse.  
The last, but oh! what daring Pen can show,  
Sorrows like His, and paint those Sorrows true!  
In Virtues, and in Honour's List the Chief,  
Mournful He stands, yet Conqueror of His Grief;  
His Father's Courage boils within His Veins,  
And o'er the Brother's Loss contends, and reigns.  
But why, alas! do I in vain pursue  
Sorrows like His, which fly the Searchers View?  
The Noblest Muse in such Attempts must fail,  
Heroes like Him should grieve behind a Veil.  
Yet cannot I (tho' lowly be my Song,  
And whom 'twould praise perhaps the Verse may wrong)  
Neglect such Goodness, and such Worth forbear,  
Which I, even I, by His Example share.  
Lindsey! A Name to Britain's Subjects known,  
So far from Fraud, and yet so near the Throne;  
The Courtier's Pride without the Courtier's Arts,  
And great His Post, as great are His Deserts;  
Retired from all the Pageantry and Pride  
Of Palaces, in private to reside,  
He flies the Place where specious Ills resort,  
And loves the Monarch, tho' he shuns the Court.  
But I, too far by Lindsey's Worth am led,  
And in the living Hero lose the Dead.  
Ah! Sacred Shade from sinful Albion torn,  
Whom we must ever want, and ever mourn,  
Whose Life could teach us, and whose Death could tell  
The Comforts, and the joys of living well:  
He from above our weak Attempts surveys,  
And what we Offer, to His Maker pays,  
Thankful to Him by whose alwise Decrees,  
Nature had made Him live, and made Him please.  
Within, their Tears the Weeping Servants spend,  
And as they mourn their Master, mourn their Friend;  
Without, the Poor their sad Attendance give,  
And almost cease, their Patron dead, to live.  
Their Wants are loud, and clamorous is their Care,  
Having no hopes but Heaven, and in His Heir.  
And, who but they can Fortune's Wrongs redress,  
And Israel's Sons with Israel's Manna bless?  
Support the Feeble, and Employ the Strong,  
And Nurse the Aged, and Instruct the Young?  
Who can His Counsels with His Bounty give,  
And saving Life shall teach 'em how to live?  
But Oh! not only These have cause for Tears,  
Tho' great Their Loss, and just Their growing Fears;  
Nations should weep, and Kingdoms should employ  
Their Grief on Him who was a Kingdom's Joy.  
To be a Father Tender, Just, and Good,  
A Brother in Affection, as in Blood;  
To be a Master, whose Indulgence strove  
Even to outdo His Grateful Servants Love;  
To be a Patron permanent, and wise,  
Still giving, and prepared for Merit's Cries:  
These! These are Actions of uncommon Fame,  
And rarely practised, may our Wonder claim.  
But to arise in injured virtue's 'Cause,  
Defend our Freedoms, and assert our Laws,  
To side with justice, and in part secure  
That Worship holy which with Him was pure;  
As much exceeds those Virtues, as They raise  
Their Deeds above the vulgar Merit's Praise,  
And purchased Blessings ne'er had been restored,  
But by the Prince He served, and by His Sword.  
Just was the Cause, as was its Champion brave,  
Resolved to die, or else resolved to save;  
Much did His Love to Him that erred persuade,  
But more the Error begged, and urged His Aid.  
Up from His dear Retreat, and loved Abode,  
He raised Himself, impatient for His God;  
Nor sheathed His pious Sword, nor eased His Thoughts,  
Till Heaven had saved the Land, and healed her Faults:  
And then quite deaf to proffering Courts He came,  
Rejecting Titles, and resisting Fame,  
And hid from Business, tho' He could not hide  
From doing Good, He blessed His God, and died.  
So Rome's Dictator from the Plough arose,  
And left his Pleasures to pursue his Foes;  
But Rome preserved, and Roman Rights maintained,  
Home he returned, and in his Farm he reigned,  
Ease and Retreat the Triumphs which he sought,  
And reaped the fruits of Peace, for which he fought.  
Methinks, I see the dying Hero lie,  
Joys in His Heart, and Raptures in His Eye,  
Cheerful His Looks, and easy is His Mind,  
Speechless expiring, thoughtful, and resigned.  
Children, and Wealth, and Brethren urge His stay,  
But heavens in view, and wings Him on His way.  
And lo! He mounts, around Him Angels fly,  
And bear their Sacred Charge along the Sky;  
Heroes stand up, and Saints departed greet  
Their Heavenly Guest, and guide Him to His Seat.  
But who can Eleonora's Joys reveal?  
Or speak those Pleasures only She can feel?  
Swift to Her Husband's Arms the Goddess flies,  
Dwells on His Looks, and feasts upon his Eyes,  
Entranced her Mind, still growing fresh Delight,  
Which every Look renews, and every Sight;  
Ten Thousand hasty Welcomes see Her give,  
Ten Thousand Questions ask of those who live;  
Again She hears Him, and again entreats  
Th' obliging News, which He again repeats;  
As in each other's Arms reclined, They share  
Each other's Praises, and each other's Prayer.  
O DRYDEN! quick the Sacred Pencil take,  
And rise in virtue's 'Cause for virtue's sake;  
Of heavens the Song, and heaven-born is Thy Muse,  
Fitting to follow Bliss which mine will lose:  
Bold are Thy Thoughts, and soaring is Thy Flight,  
Thy Fancy tempting, Thy Expressions bright;  
Moving Thy Grief, and powerful is Thy Praise,  
Or to command our Tears, or joys to raise.  
So shall His Worth, from Age to Age conveyed,  
Show what the Hero did, and Poet paid;  
And future Times shall practise what they see  
Performed so well by Him, and praised by Thee,  
Whilst I confess the Weakness of My Lays,  
And give My Wonder where Thou giv'st Thy Praise:  
As I from every Muse but Thine retire,  
And HIM in Thee, and Thee in HIM admire.  
FINIS.   

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

'TWAS well performed, as it was well designed▪  
And Lords and Commons the Procession joined:  
Horror in all its Pomp of Sorrows drew  
A Scene of Woe which Grief could hardly view,  
When through the Streets the mournful Chariots passed,  
And slowly bore what Fate destroyed in haste:  
As weeping Crowds officious in their Praise,  
Sprinkled with flowing Tears the withered Bays.   

Yet what avails it? That this Prince of Bards,  
Has all just Honours paid, and due Regards;  
That He in Chaucer's Grave most Nobly sleeps,  
And Fame around his Tomb her Vigils keeps:  
That Learned Garth his Sacred Worth has shown  
In Eloquence, not Second to his own,  
And, speaking what shall be with pleasure read,  
Revived those Virtues which he wept for Dead.  
That Hireling Players could their Acts refrain,  
And greedy Patentees forgo their Gain,  
To pay their cheap Acknowledgements of Woe,  
And own a Debt which they must ever owe;  
If on the solemn Day the Stage is lent  
For Slaves to tread, and Villains to frequent,  
As Noise, and Nonsense joined together sit,  
And desecrates the Hallowed Seat of WIT.   

Oh! Sacred Bard, from whose instructive Lays,  
Britannia conquers. Italy in Praise,  
Who feelest the Raptures which thy Numbers taught,  
And hast no other Eyes but those of Thought,  
A while forget thy blessed Abode, and see  
That House profaned which owes its Fame to Thee.  
Within whose Walls thy coppy'd Heroes show,  
How much the Feigned could personate the True;  
Behold the Structure, and survey the Dome  
Which makes Augusta Rival ancient Rome,  
And shows the Glories of the British Isle,  
As Europe cannot boast a Noble Pile  
The best of Buildings and the worst abused,  
A Stable should not be so meanly used.   

Ah! see the Place where thy Ventidius stood,  
Bending with Years, and most profusely good,  
Unmoved by Fate, and of unshaken Truth,  
His Counsels those of Age, His Courage that of Youth;  
Where Mourning Anthony contesting striven  
Which to relinquish, Honour, or his Love,  
As every Hearer's Sorrows took his Part,  
And truly wept for him who grieved with Art.   

Butchers and Bailiffs now the Boxes fill.  
Where Ladies Eyes were Instruments to kill,  
Where Kit-Cats sat, and Toasters would be seen,  
These swollen with Wit, and those with Letch'ry lean.   

But it's in vain that I Resentments show,  
The craving Muck-worm R— will have it so.  
And spite of Shame, and due Respect to Sense,  
Has turned it to a Slaughter-house for Pence,  
Departed Shade! For whom he Sorrows feigns,  
And sends his Mourning Coaches for his Gains,  
Down from above thy Sacred Spirit dart,  
And Influence, some Author with thy Art.  
To lash the griping Wretch, who dare debase,  
So fine a Structure, and so sweet a Place.   

May P— l leave him, nor V— n more  
Act a Coquet, or an imagined Wh—re.  
May W—ks no famed Sir Harry Wild-airs make,  
Diverting only for its Actor's sake,  
But Patentee left Weeping in the lurch,  
See Drury-Play-house thin as Parish-Church;  
Till it at last has neither Wh—re, nor Cully,  
A just Reward for Dorset-Garden Folly;  
And is let out (to finish its disgrace)  
To sell the Meat that's killed at t'other Place.   
Printed in the Year, 1700.   

A PANEGYRIC On the Author of Absolom and Achitophel, occasioned by his former writing of an Elegy in praise of Oliver Cromwell, lately Reprinted.  
WHEN Old Philosophers wrote the World's Birth,  
And from wild Chaos brought great Nature forth;  
The self same Atoms as they different ran,  
Clubbed to a Lion, Monkey, Bear, or Man:  
From such thin Sires such solid Offsprings grew,  
So Divine Wite, like the First Matter Thou:  
Thy subtle Sparks do such strange Products make,  
That Thou just nothing, yet all Forms canst take.  
So justly thou hast deserved thy long-worn Bays,  
That as a Trophy to thy Endless Praise,  
Let that great Poem its long Silence break;  
The worthiest of thy vast Creation speak,  
Methinks I fancy how bold Mutius Dart  
Was levelled at Porsenna's Royal Heart,  
And in defeated Rage I see him doom  
His 〈◊〉 Hand t'its flaming Martyrdom.  
Le●●is poor Deeds in dull Oblivion die;  
Thy Vengeance with a surer Aim lets fly:  
〈◊〉 keen iambics against thy Sovereign Lord,  
Thy Pen was more Successful than his Sword.  
So vast a Pile thy lofty Numbers raise  
Those Babel-Builders to great MOLOCHES praise.  
A Pile which to thy Honour will surpass  
Even thy own Corah's Monumental Brass.  
Thou writest with so much Flame, Flame so refined,  
That Poetry's the Fever of thy Mind:  
And Feaver-like in those bleak days of Yore.  
When Loyalty was Naked left and Poor,  
Thy Aguish Veins Chilled at a Starving Door.  
But Burning high thy active Spirits run  
At prosperous Rebellions warmer Sun.  
When Phaeton misled the Day, and hurled  
His scattered Fires around the scorching World:  
How would his Glories in thy Meeter Chime,  
The Groans of Worlds thus softened into Rhyme?  
Or when great Nero set his Rome on Fire,  
And Tuned its Ruin to his jocund Lyre;  
How with his Music would thy Notes agree,  
A Song, great Bard, fit to be Set by Thee  
Such Wonders have thy powerful 〈◊〉 ●hown,  
Pythagoras' Transmigration thou'st 〈◊〉 done.  
His Souls of Heroes and great Chiefs Expired,  
Down into Birds and Noble Beasts retired.  
But thou to Savages and Monsters dire  
Canst infuse Sparks, even of Celestial Fire,  
Make Treason Glory, Murderers Herbs live;  
And even to REGICIDES canst GODHEADS give.  
Thus in thy Songs, the yet warm Bloody Dart,  
Fresh ●eaking in a Martyred Monarches Heart.  
Burnished by Verse, and polished by thy Lines,  
The Rubies in Imperial Crowns outshines.  
Whilst in Applause to that sad days Success,  
So Black a Theme in so Divine a Dress;  
Thy Soaring Flights Prometheus Thefts excel;  
Whilst Thou stealest Fire from Heaven t'enlighten HELL.  
But stay, my Muse, here change thy gaudy strain,  
And show a New, no less Prodigious Scene.  
That Lawrelled Head, whose sweet Melodious Tongue,  
To Curse ye Mero● JOPAEAN Sung,  
A Bagpipe Drone to the old Priestcrast Cant:  
Who once did Consecrated Daggers chant,  
And England's great Ravilliack sung before;  
Now Tunes his Pipes to David's Righteous Lore.  
In Caevolas Stump the Convert Pen he brings,  
And his Burnt Hand now writes the Praise of Kings.  
Thus Bold, thus Great, and all in the Extreme,  
His Panegyrics are like Daniel's Dream;  
This Tribute now to David's Glory pay,  
A Head of Gold to his old Feet of Clay.  
No wonder then so Feelingly he tells  
Of Corahs', Shimeis, and achitophel's.  
Such Characters he may well gild so fine,  
Who has their Rich Ore from his own Native Mine.  
How vast an Orh has a Poetic Soul.  
Grasps all from East to West, and Pole to Pole.  
Its warbling Voice, Right, Wrong, Truth, Falsehood Sings,  
Tuned to all States, Religions, Gods or Kings.  
Oh Wit how Wide is thy Circumference?  
Where thy Attractive centre's Bread and Pence.  
Pence did I say! oh they have charming skill,  
To rouse the Gaul of an Heroic Quill,  
Is there not mighty sound and mighty fence,  
In great Iscariots thirty c●inking Pence!  
By this Lucina hast thou born with pain,  
The numerous Offsprings of thy teeming Brain;  
More various Issues in Nile's slimy Bed,  
Not thy own Patron Phoebus ever bred▪  
Thy pregnant Heats, like Israel's wanton Lust,  
First mould thy Golden Calves, than pound them into Dust.  
Write on, and more than Winds or Frenzy Range,  
Keep still thy old Prerogative to Change.  
'Tis poor Humanity that's kept in bound,  
Whilst Power unlimited is Godlike found:  
Then thy Great self thou wondrous Poet show:  
Honour and Principles 〈…〉 know  
Thy Mercurye's too proud to 〈…〉  
All Laws and Bounds let thy wild Muse despise,  
And reign the Prince o'th' Air, in which 〈…〉  
Reprinted in the Year MDC 〈…〉.   

AN ELEGY On the most celebrated Poet of the Age, John Dryden Esq Who Departed this Life, May the 1st. 1700.  
Monarch's of Wit, and Worlds, must all lay down;  
One Fate waits both the Laurel and the Crown.  
Even DRYDEN, (what e'er Immortality  
The Muse may claim) the Bard, alas, must die.  
Apollo's Eldest Son in Dust thus laid,  
What Pomp must make his Funeral Cavalcade!  
By the whole Muse's Race that Honoured Head,  
To his great Urn in solemn Sables led.  
WIT mourned by Wit! Those the chief Mourners here?  
No; let that sullen Tribe bring up the Rear.  
WIT's so ill Natured grown, they have not all  
One genuine Tear, worthy to mourn his Fall.  
At distance then the envying Scribblers stand,  
Nor let His Rites be by false Tears profaned.  
Let Worth and Honour; the Ingenius Fair,  
And the Learned Great, be the true Mourners there:  
They whose rich Cabinets his Works adorn;  
Who with his loftier Airs awake the Morn;  
Or with his softer Numbers lull their sleep;  
Theirs are the Eyes this Albion Loss should weep.  
What tho' the warmth of Youth in Age retire:  
It chilled no Spark of his Poetic Fire.  
wit's verdant Bays, unshockt by Winter's Blast,  
Like wit's great Patron God should Youthful last.  
vigorous and warm did his last Numbers glow,  
Like Aetna, kept the Flame beneath the Snow.  
To the last Gasp thus his tuned Raptures ran,  
And only finished like the dying Swan.  
What tho' his Laureate Reign once shocked by Fate,  
(For Wit, like Empire, has its Turns of State)  
The blushing World his Muse's Throne beheld,  
By such poor Empty Heads supplied, not filled,  
He kept this yet unshaken Glory still,  
He only lost the Feather, not the Quill.  
Let Garth's and Blackmore's th' Albion World divide,  
Whilst warring Critics battle on each side.  
Parties and Factions there in Arms appear;  
Uncertain Victory, all Chance of War.  
The popular Favour there on either side,  
All Ebb and Flow, the Torrent's but a Tide.  
Great Dryden no such giddy Sceptre swayed,  
All Knees his Universal Homage paid.  
DRYDEN so filled th' Apollinary Throne,  
DRYDEN Wit's Alexander reigned Alone.  
And as when that Great Head no longer shined,  
In Death his World, but not his Fame resigned,  
His numerous Successors put in their Claim:  
So the poor Rivals to Great Dryden's Fame,  
All petty Candidates their weak Pretensions raise,  
And only Ca●●on out his vast Immortal Praise.   

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

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