The Address OF John Dryden, Laureate, To His Highness the Prince of ORANGE.  

IN all th' Hosannah's, our whole World's Applause,  
Illustrious Champion of our Church and Laws;  
Accept, Great NASSAW, from unworthy Me,  
Amongst th' Adoring Crowd, a bended Knee:  
Nor Scruple▪ Sir, to hear my Echoing Lyre,  
Strung, Tuned, and Joined in th' Universal Choir;  
From my suspected Mouth, Thy Glories told,  
A known Out liar from the English Fold,  
Rome's Votary, the Protestant sworn Foe—  
Rome!— my Religion, half an hour ago.  
My Roman Dagon's by thy Arm o'erthrown;  
And now my Proselyted Soul's Thy own.  
Thy Glory would convert that Infidel,  
That had whole Ages stood .  

No wonder than Thou canst Affections sway  
In Tender Breasts like mine, such pliant Clay,  
As could even bear new Moulding twice a day.    

Nor doubt thy Convert True, I who could raise  
Immortal Trophies, even to CROMWEL's Praise:  
I who my Muses Insant Quill could Fledge,  
With high-sung Murder, Treason, Sacrilege:  

A Martyred Monarch, and an Enslaved Nation,  
A Kingdom's shame, the whole World's Execration,  
By me Translated even t'a Constellation.   
If this, all this, I could unblushing Write;  
Fear not that Pen that shall Thy Praise Indite:  
Where High-Born-Blood my Adoration draws,  
Exalted Glory, an Unblemished Cause.  
A Theme so all Divine, my Muse shall wing,  
What is't, Great Prince, for Thee I will not sing?  
No bounds shall stop my Pegasean flight,  
I'll spot my Hind, and wash my Panther white.  

Against the seven proud Hills I'll Muster all  
My keen Poetic Rage, and Rhyme with all  
The Vengeance of a second Hannibal:   
The Papal Chair by dint of Verse overturn;  
My Moulten Gods, like Israel's Calf, I'll burn;  
Copes, Crosiers, all the Trumpery of Rome,  
Doomed to Great waller's Blazing Hecatomb:  
I'll pound my Beads to dust, and wear no more  
Those Pagan Bracelets of the Scarlet Whore.  
But whether am I rapt! for, oh! my Fears!  
I bend beneath the weight of sixty Years:  
Low runs my Glass, more low my Aged Muse,  
And to my Will, alas, does Power refuse.  
But if, Great Prince, my feeble strength shall fail;  
This Theme I'll to my Successors entail:  
My Heirs th' Unfinished Subject shall Complete.  
I have a Son, and he, by all that' Great;  
That very Son (and trust my Oaths; I Swore  
As much to my Great Master JAMES before)  
Shall by his Sire's Example, Rome renounce;  
For he, young Stripling, yet has turned but once.  
That Oxford Nursling-plant, that hopeful Boy,  
His Fathers, and the once Ignatian Joy,  
Designed for a new Bellarmine Goliath  
Under the great Gamaliel, Obadiah,  
That Youth, great Sir, shall your Fame's Trumpet blow,  
And soar, when my dull Wing shall flag below:  

A Protestant Herculean Column stand,  
When I, a poor weak Pillar of the Land,  
Now growing old, am crumbling into Sand.    

But hark; methinks I hear the buzzing Crowd  
At my Conversion dare to laugh aloud.  
Let censuring Fops, and snarling Envy grin,  
Tickled and pleased with my Chameleon Skin.  
No; senseless Fools, my true Dimensions scan,  
And know the laureate's a Leviathan.  
Now tybur's Mouth ebbs low, and on that shore  
My rolling Bulk, alas, can sport no more:  
Down the full Tide I scour, to take a lose  
In the more swelling Surge at H●bver-Sluys.  
Let chattering Daws, and every senseless Widgeon,  
Their descant pass on that great Name, Religion;  
Religion, by true Politician Rules,  
The Wise Man's strength, and the weak-side of Fools.   

For we, who Godliness for Gain support,  
heavens Votaries for Candidates at Court,  
Make our Church walls, our Rampart, Sconce & Fort.   
Our Masses, Dirges, Vespers, Orisons;  
Our Counter-scarps, our Ravelins, and Halfmoons.  

And now our Avemary's put to th' Rout,  
And from that Bastion, I am beaten out;  
I'm but retiring to a new Redoubt   

Why should I blush to turn, when my defence  
And Plea's so plain? For if Omnipotence  
Beth' highest Attribute that Heaven can boast;  
That's the truest Church that Heaven resembles most.  
The Tables than are turned, and 'tis confessed,  
The strongest and the mightiest is the best.  
In all my changes then, I'm o'th' right side;  
And by the same great Reason justified;  
When the bold Crescent late Attacked the Cross,  
Resolved the Empire of the World t'ingross,  
Had tottering Vienna's Walls but failed,  
And Turkey over Christendom prevailed:  
Long, long e'er this, I had past the Dardanello,  
And sat the mighty Mahomet's Hayl-fellow:  
Quit my duller Hopes, the poor Renown  
Of Eton College, or a Dublin Gown;  
And commenced Graduate in the great Divan,  
Had reigned a more Immortal Mussulman.  
No Art, Pain, Labour, toil's too much, t' assail  
Heavens Towry Battlement; my Heaven I'd scale  
Through all Religions, Church o'er Churches mounted,  
More than the Rounds that Jacob's Ladder counted.   

Has this stupendious Revolution passed;  
A change so quick, and I not turn as fast?  
Let boggling Conscience shock the squeamish Fool,  
Poor crazy Animals, whose Stomaches pule:  
Shall scrup'lous Tastes disgust their Paschal, stickle  
Whether true dressed in Souse, or Broth, or Pickle?  
If Muscadine runs low, I'm not so dull,  
But I can pledge Salvation in Lambs-Wool.  
And if Salvation to one Church is bound,  
So much the rather would I change all round.  
Change then can be no fault: A whole Life long  
Kept in one Church, may always be i'th' wrong.  
But there where Conscience circle's in her flight,  
We who be of all sides, must be once i'th' Right.    

London, Printed in the Year, 1689.