TO THE Two Universities, AN EPISTLE.  
Together with a PREDICTION Concerning the FRENCH; Translated out of CALLIMACHUS. Who is by St. Paul said to be a Prophet, and that his Testimony is true, 1 Titus, ch. 1. v. 12, 13.  
— Vos exemplaria Graeca  
Nocturna versat● Manu versate diurna.  Horace. 
Et totum spirent praecordia Phaebum.  Claudian. 
— ut potius furentis animi vaticinatio appareat, quam religiosae orationis sub testibus fides.  Petron. 
Licenced, Sept. 12. 1690.  
LONDON: Printed for Richard Baldwin, near the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-lane, 1691.   

TO THE Two Universities, AN EPISTLE.  

JOY all-afloat, and now the Tide so high;  
Yet Cam, and Ouze, the Muse's Springs, are dry.  
Lost is the Vein, the celebrated Dew,  
Whence Laurel, and so goodly Garlands grew.  
Ye, the two Lights; ye, Albion's sovereign Beams,  
Break from the Cloud, and play along the Streams.  
Should any dry Dilemma strain your thought,  
One, at the door, attends your Gordian knot.  
If Friends, your Tributary-Hymn rehearse;  
If Foes, then pay your Contribution-Verse.  
Birds feel the Genial Virtue of the Spring,  
Their Transport show, nor need be bid to Sing.  
You Orders wait; condemned to write in Chains,  
And row, as in a Galley, with your Pens.  
King WILLIAM would not relish Victory,  
If you, in Mood and Figure, prove not free.  
Yet free you tiff up Celia's dangling Hair;  
Make Cloes Eyes, each, twinkle to a Star;  
You point an Epigram; you trill a Song;  
Lash with Lampoon, or Satyr's harder Thong.  
When Godlike Deeds, and loudest Wonders call,  
Ye droop, ye sink, no fire, no spark at all.  
Then you, dead Founders, and Antiquity,  
(With lawless, senseless Privileges) vye:  
And, in the Wild-Goose-chace so blind are run,  
That, at Midday, you hardly see the Sun.  
Some C— Gorgon stuns your mind,  
Or sevenfold Hydra of the M— kind;  
Or Snake your Blood, and viler Serpents freeze,  
That roll, and loll, and hiss from hollow trees.  
This sullen, double, wayward, haggard Air,  
Looks as the Wether were not inly fair.  
I would not strain Poetic Faith, but hope  
We may have better English from the Pope.  
O Christ, how others, that pretend to Save,  
Together link Religion and a Slave!  
Nay, Protestants (but be it said no more)  
Rowed the French Galleys to our amazed shore,  
With wooden Shoes, to clamp in every Town,  
And Irish Frogs, to croak about the Throne.  
When Ganges, or the Granic, ye rehearse,  
The Indian King, or Persian Monarches Wars,  
There, rambling Bacchus, double died in Blood;  
Here, Alexander flouncing through the Flood:  
When fired with these; your Raptures, and your Wine,  
Might ye not dip a little at the Boyn?  
Where (not on your Horse-Legend to Entrench)  
Now quags a Bog with Tory-blood, and French.  
Ah, had just Heaven not warded off the Shot,  
Even you had cried, The Gods were in the Plot.  
In vain it roul'd, Heavens did their Justice clear,  
Put to their hand, nor durst be Passive there.  
Man is not, in an instant, to create,  
But, one by one, turn o'er the Leaves of Fate:  
Yet WILLIAM's course so swift, old Fate perplexed,  
To turn, and find what is to follow next:  
And Nature grieved, as of all Name bereft,  
Should nothing be to Second Causes left.  
The Power Divine, that breathed on Nature's face,  
Let Time (six days) the several Features trace.  
Think not three Crowns confine his generous care;  
It beams around, and moves in every Sphere.  
See, with his Cause, with the same Spirit warm,  
His Theseus, and confederate Hero's arm;  
With pious Arms, through France, to cut their way;  
France, now the Den, for every Beast of Prey.  
'Tis He that bids the Germane Eagle fly  
Above the Moon, that guilds the Turkish Sky.  
His Banners on the Alpin Mountains play.  
And cheer the Vales, uncustomed to the day.  
His Power through Rocks, by Hercules renowned,  
And Hannibal, a readier Passage found.  
Eternal Frost has there his Influence felt;  
And, by his Rays, the harder Swissers melt.  
Where shall I touch? the Indies still behind,  
And t'other World! O King of Humankind!  
Who might but half his Operations know,  
Would swear, the Sun has hardly more to do.  
He shines, and forward carries on the day;  
And finds no stop, no Tropic in the way.  
The rosy East, the West, and either Pole,  
The Vigour feel of his extended Soul.  
From Violence, and all Inhumanities',  
He clears the Mountains, and He scours the Seas.  
Strife shall no more this giddy World divide;  
Nor, on the Earth, that Hag, Oppression, ride:  
But Truth, all naked, at broad day appear,  
And Virtue walk familiar ,  
And Peace, in her soft hand, the Globe sustain;  
Our Hercules shall fix his Pillars then.  
Then every Mouth confess the Heavens are just:  
God never found a King before to trust.  
If Admiration honestly suspend  
Your Muse; when must the Admiration end?  
New Matter springs; A boundless Torrent flows;  
And each Sun, like itself, a Wonder shows.  
Puzzled is Fame, which foremost to relate,  
King WILLIAM, or King WILLIAM's glorious Mate.  
The Orb of Things, and Nature's whole Affair,  
Turn on the single Pins of Peace and War.  
Whilst him fierce Arms, and horrid Pomp express,  
Her proper Province (one would think) is Peace.  
Peace, and the Shade, and Myrtles branching round,  
As wishing thence her lovely Temples crowned.  
With Peace affected, yet to War allied,  
She plays her part, in Wars rough business tried.  
She always, for the Militant, did hold;  
And oft has heard how Angels fought of old,  
When Heavens Militia, the Seraphic Host,  
Drove the black Squadrons from the 〈◊〉 Coast,  
Godlike She stands, with an undaunted grace,  
Tho' Terrors crack and flash around the place;  
Nor is dismayed, howe'er the Chance is slurred;  
Nor from her Sceptre frighted by the Sword.  
That gentle sweetness, in her Air, and Face,  
Make not the Awe, the Sovereign Dread, the less.  
The Majesty with Beauty sits secure;  
Nor does the Sex effeminate her Power.  
Yet never Lawrel-wreath, nor Crown, till now,  
Sat on so smooth, on so serene a Brow.  
The Grace's smile to find their Myrtle-brayd,  
Tipto the Imperial Honours of her Head.  
Those softer Graces that her Glory join,  
Sacred, say they? Oh, certainly Divine!  
Her Virtue far the Rebel Legion breaks:  
Beneath her Eyes unfaithful Neptune quakes.  
So, on the Waves, Love's Queen no sooner shone,  
But all the Horrors of the Seas were gone.  
What if her wary Fleet, for once, gave way,  
When did she build on either Wind or Sea?   

Might Granta be excused in Piety;  
So much a Swan, that if she sing, she die,  
Yet Isis need not stint her joyful Note,  
That Sister is not old enough to dote.  
Tho' Greklade she, and Grecian Honours cry;  
The Grecian flights scarce match our History.  
Their long-trained Heroines, (if we Homer trust)  
In days of yore, did raise but little dust.  
Penelope, her Husband turns his back,  
She spins, and whines, and all is gone to wrack.  
Andromache was great in Name, but all  
Known of Andromache, is, she was tall.  
Search Heaven, let thither mount our Nobler Dream:  
What is dull Turf, to our, no Mortal, Theme!  
That Jove, whom all the Gods their Chief confess,  
His Juno with him, were not of-a-piece.  
Whilst Giants he, and brave Adventure seeks,  
Her business was some mean ungodly Piques.  
These Gods, and Court of Heaven, but show how high  
The boldest Wit, and Greek Inventions fly;  
But ne'er would Bard, for Jove's, and Heaven's high Queen,  
Have Juno feigned, had they our MARY seen.  
We find their Fancy, and their Fables short,  
To draw, from thence, a Copy of the Court.  
With us, when foreign Monsters call for Wars,  
Tho' Schomberg gone, we still might show a Mars.  
Apollo too might nobly fill his Sphere,  
Would ye the Muses from your Cloisters spare,  
Think, when ye see it wave, in Dorset's hand,  
If Mercury so well became the Wand;  
Or did, in either World, so charming move,  
To Men below, or the few Gods above.   

Dark, by the Hedges, my short Pen I wield;  
To you is left, the wide, the glorious Field;  
To tempt you more; no Goddess touched, or blown;  
Pallas is yours, and Venus all your own.    

A PROPHECY Concerning the FRENCH, Translated out of CALLIMACHUS.  
In Callimachus, the Hymn to Delos, Vers. 163.  APOLLO Speaks. 

AMongst the Islands, plainly, I prefer  

* i e. Albion.  Ogygia; and could wish my Altars there:  
I like the Country, and I love the Men;  
But Fate does 
† 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  other Honours there ordain;  
A Prince is there, the best of Kings designed;  
And, sure, the Chief of all the 
¶ 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  Saviour kind.  
So mild his Power, so pure the Virtue shown,  
As if He wore a 
* 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  Mitre, not a Crown.  
Around the various World, however far  
The Ocean flows, or Phoebus drives his Car,  
All own his Sway; and come with supple Knee,  
Who willing, or are worthy to be Free.  
His Father's ways, to Justice always true,  
He well shall know, and shall as well pursue.  
The time will come, a common Cause shall join  
Our Arms; My Cause is his, and his is mine:  
When shall so high a 
* 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  Giant's Frenzy run,  
In spite of me, to boast himself the Sun.  
His wanton Brood shall Earth and Heaven assail,  
As fierce as Thunder, and as thick as Hail;  
Not Locusts, with their swarms, that cloud the day,  
Nor Lybian Sands, in number more than they.  
Wild Desolation ranges all about,  
 stalks that Hundred-handed Rout.  
The desert Field, the ravaged Country groans,  
Whilst Fire and Rage lay waste the neighbouring Towns.  
No Monument, no Tower, no Temple spared,  
By Dorian, or Corinthian cunning reared.  
Each Holy Place profaned, no Corner clean,  
For bloody Targets, Halberds, Sword, or Skein.  
Here a rich Dome they gut, there Mysteries  
Tread under foot; and never bend their Knees.  
Our Oracles, the Sacred Leaves they tear,  
With impious hands, and toss 'em in the air.  
Even my own Shrines they break, my Altar's sap,  
And, after this, shall one 
* 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  Galathian escape?  
Nay, their own Blood the Monster's Lust shall quench:  
Call them Galathians, Gauls, or 
† 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  Celts, or French.  
Under the Spoils, their barbarous outrage got,  
And heaps of Ruins, that they made, they rot.  
When Time shall bring this growing truth to light,  
Then say, O King, Apollo levelled right.  
Whilst there's a Dragon, or a Giant near,  
My Bow shall twang, in consort, with thy Spear.  
Let my winged Vengeance the dire 
¶ 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  Delphyn shoot;  
With 
*⁎* 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  eastern Steel strike thou both Branch and Root.  
So our joint Arms quite off the Earth shall chase,  
That Vain, that Godless, that Unhuman Race.   
FINIS.