In short, we'll grow as moral as we can,
Save here and there a woman or a man :
But neither you, nor we, with all our pains,
Can make clean work; there will be fome remains,
While you have still your Oats, and we our Hains.
EPIGRAM,
On the Dutchefs of PORTSMOUTH'S Picture.
URE we do live by Cleopatra's age,
Since Sunderland does govern now the stage:
She of Septimius had nothing made,
Pompey alone had been by her betray'd.
Were the a poet, fhe would furely boast,
That all the world for pearls had well been loft.
EPIT A PH.
Intended for Mr. DRYDEN'S Wife.
HERE lies my wife: here let her lie!
Now fhe's at reft, and fo am I.
DESCRIPTION of old JACOB TONSON.
ITH leering look, bull-fac'd, and freckled fair, With two left-legs, with Judas-colour'd hair, And frowzy pores that taint the ambient air.
On Tonfon's refufing to give Dryden the price he afked for his Virgil, the Poet fent him the above; and added, "Tell the dog, that he who wrote them, can "write more." The money was paid.
To the unknown AUTHOR of ABSALOM and ACHITOPHEL.
TAKE it as earnest of a faith renew'd,
Your theme is vaft, your verfe divinely good: Where, though the Nine their beautecus ftrokes repeat, And the turn'd lines on golden anvils beat, It looks as if they ftrook them at a heat. So all ferenely great, so just refin'd, Like angels love to human feed inclin'd, It starts a giant, and exalts the kind. 'Tis fpirit feen, whofe fiery atoms roll, So brightly fierce, each fyllable 's a foul. 'Tis miniature of man, but he's all heart;
'Tis what the world would be, but wants the art;
To whom ev'n the fanaticks altars raife,
Bow in their own despite, and grin your praise;
As if a Milton from the dead arofe,
Fil'd off the ruft, and the right party chofe.
Nor, Sir, be fhock'd at what the gloomy fay;
Turn not your feet too inward, nor too fplay.
'Tis gracious all, and great: Pufh on your theme;
Lean your griev'd head on David's diadem.
David, that rebel Ifrael's envy mov'd;
David, by God and all good men belov'd.
The beauties of your Abfalom excel :
But more the charms of charming Annabel :
Of Annabel, than May's first morn more bright,
Chearful as fummer's noon, and chafte as winter's night. Of Annabel, the Mufes dearest theme;
Of Annabel, the angel of my dream.
Thus let a broken eloquence attend,
And to your mafter-piece thefe fhadows fend.
Mr DUKE's verfes to Mr Dryden may be feen
in the volume of his Poems.
To the concealed A U T H OR of ABSALOM and ACHITOPHEL.
HAIL, heaven-born Mufe: hail, every facred page:]
The glory of our ifle and of our age.
Th' infpiring fun to Albion draws more nigh,
The north at length teems with a work, to vie
With Homer's flame and Virgil's majesty.
While Pindus' lofty heights our poet fought,
(His ravish'd mind with vast ideas fraught)
Our language fail'd beneath his rifing thought..
This checks not his attempt; for Maro's mines
He drains of all their gold, t' adorn his lines:
Through each of which the Mantuan Genius fhines.
The rock obey'd the powerful Hebrew guide,
Her flinty breast diffolv'd into a tide :
Thus on our stubborn language he prevails,
And makes the Helicon in which he sails;
The dialect, as well as fenfe, invents,
And, with his poem, a new fpeech presents.
Hail then, thou matchlefs Bard, thou great unknown,
That give your country fame, yet shun your own!
In vain; for every where your praise you find,
And, not to meet it, you must shun mankind.
Your loyal theme each loyal reader draws,
And ev❜n the factious give your verse applause,
Whose lightning ftrikes to ground their idol cause :
The cause for whose dear fake they drank a flood
Of civil gore, nor spar'd the royal blood;
The caufe, whose growth to crush, our prelates wrote
In vain, almost in vain our heroes fought;
Yet by one flab of your keen fatire dies:
Before your facred lines their fhatter'd Dagon lies.
Oh! if unworthy we appear to know
The fire, to whom this lovely birth we owe :
Deny'd our ready homage to exprefs,
And can at best but thankful be by guess;
This hope remains: May David's godlike mind,
(For him 'twas wrote) the unknown author find;
And, having found, shower equal favours down
On wit so vast, as could oblige a crown.
Upon the AUTHOR of the MEDAL.
NCE more our awful poet arms, t'engage
The threatening hydra-faction of the age; Once more prepares his dreadful pen to wield, And every Mufe attends him to the field.
By art and nature for this task design'd,
Yet modeftly the fight he long declin'd;
Forbore the torrent of his verfe to pour,
Nor loos'd his fatire till the needful hour.
His fovereign's right, by patience half betray'd,
Wak'd his avenging genius to his aid.
Bleft Muse, whose wit with such a cause was crown'd,
And bleft the cause that such a champion found!
With chofen verfe upon the foe he falls,
And black fedition in each quarter galls;
Yet, like a prince with fubjects forc'd t' engage,
Secure of conquest he rebates his rage;
His fury not without diftinction sheds,
Hurls mortal bolts, but on devoted heads;
To lefs-infected members gentle found,
Or fpares, or elfe pours balm into the wound.
Such generous grace th' ingrateful tribe abuse,
And trefpafs on the mercy of his Mufe:
Their wretched doggrel rhymers forth they bring,
To fuarl and bark against the poets' king;
A crew, that fcandalize the nation more,
Than all their treafon-canting priests before.
On thefe he fcarce vouchfafes a fcornful fmile,
But on their powerful patrons turns his style:
A ftyle fo keen, as ev'n from faction draws
The vital poifon, ftabs to th' heart their caufe.
Take then, great Bard, what tribute we can raife;
Accept our thanks, for you tranfcend our praise.
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