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When well receiv'd by hospitable foes,
The kindness he returns, is to expose:
For courtesies, tho' undeserv'd and great,
No gratitude in felon-minds beget;
As tribute to his wit, the churl receives
the treat.

His praise of foes is venomously nice;
So touch'd, it turns a virtue to a vice:
A Greek, and bountiful, forewarns us twice.
Sev'n sacraments he wisely does disown,
Because he knows confession stands for
one;
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Where sins to sacred silence are convey'd, And not for fear, or love, to be betray'd: But he, uncall'd, his patron to control, Divulg'd the secret whispers of his soul; Stood forth th' accusing Sathan of his crimes,

And offer'd to the Moloch of the times.

""T is true, the Pigeons, and their prince

elect,

Were short of pow'r their purpose to effect; But with their quills did all the hurt they could,

And cuff'd the tender Chickens from their food:

And much the Buzzard in their cause did stir,

Tho' naming not the patron, to infer, 2520 With all respect, he was a gross idolater.

"But when th' imperial owner did espy That thus they turn'd his grace to villainy, Not suff'ring wrath to discompose his mind,

He strove a temper for th' extremes to find,

So to be just, as he might still be kind; Then, all maturely weigh'd, pronounc'd a

doom

But each have sep'rate int'rests of their own;
Two Czars are one too many for a throne.
Nor can th' usurper long abstain from food;
Already he has tasted Pigeons' blood,
And may be tempted to his former fare,
When this indulgent lord shall late to
heav'n repair.

Bare benting times, and molting months may come,

When, lagging late, they cannot reach their home;

Or rent in schism (for so their fate decrees) Like the tumultuous college of the bees, 2580 They fight their quarrel, by themselves oppress'd:

The tyrant smiles below, and waits the falling feast."

Thus did the gentle Hind her fable end, Nor would the Panther blame it, nor commend;

But, with affected yawnings at the close,
Seem'd to require her natural repose:
For now the streaky light began to peep,
And setting stars admonish'd both to sleep.
The dame withdrew, and, wishing to her
guest

The peace of heav'n, betook herself to

The Paraclete in fiery pomp descend;
But when his wondrous (b) octave roll'd
again,

He brought a royal infant in his train.
So great a blessing to so good a king,
None but th' Eternal Comforter could
bring.

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Or did the mighty Trinity conspire, As once, in council to create our sire? It seems as if they sent the newborn guest To wait on the procession of their feast; And on their sacred anniverse decreed To stamp their image on the promis'd seed. Three realms united, and on one bestow'd, An emblem of their mystic union show'd: The Mighty Trine the triple empire shar'd, As every person would have one to guard.

Hail, son of pray'rs, by holy violence Drawn down from heav'n; but long be banish'd thence,

And late to thy paternal skies retire! To mend our crimes whole ages would require;

To change th' inveterate habit of our sins, And finish what thy godlike sire begins. 40 Kind Heav'n, to make us Englishmen again, No less can give us than a patriarch's reign.

The sacred cradle to your charge receive, Ye seraphs, and by turns the guard relieve; Thy father's angel, and thy father join, To keep possession, and secure the line;

(a) Whit Sunday. (b) Trinity Sunday.

But long defer the honors of thy fate: Great may they be like his, like his be late; That James this running century may view, And give his son an auspice to the new. Our wants exact at least that moderate stay:

For see the (c) Dragon winged on his

way,

To watch the (d) travail, and devour the prey.

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Or, if allusions may not rise so high,
Thus, when Alcides rais'd his infant cry,
The snakes besieg'd his young divinity;
But vainly with their forked tongues they
threat,

For opposition makes a hero great.
To needful succor all the good will run,
And Jove assert the godhead of his son. 60
O still repining at your present state,
Grudging yourselves the benefits of fate,
Look up, and read in characters of light
A blessing sent you in your own despite.
The manna falls, yet that celestial bread
Like Jews you munch, and murmur while
you feed.

May not your fortune be like theirs, exil'd,
Yet forty years to wander in the wild;
Or if it be, may Moses live at least,
To lead you to the verge of promis'd rest.
Tho' poets are not prophets, to fore-

know

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