293.

Methinks already from this chymic flame,
I see a city of more precious mold ;
Rich as the town which gives the Indies name,
With filver-pav'd, and all divine with gold.

294.

Already laboring with a mighty fate,

She shakes the rubbish from her mounting

brow,

And feems to have renew'd her charter's date, Which heaven will to the death of time allow

295.

More great than human now, and more august,
Now deified she from her fires does rife :
Her widening streets on new foundations truft,
And opening into larger parts fhe flies.
296.

Before the like fome fhepherdefs did fhow,
Who fat to bathe her by a river's fide;

Not answering to her fame, but rude and low, Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride. 297.

Now like a maiden queen fhe will behold,

From her high turrets, hourly fuitors come : The Eaft with incenfe, and the Weft with gold,

Will stand like fuppliants to receive her doom,

298.

The filver Thames, her own domeftic flood, Shall bear her veffels like a sweeping train ; And often wind, as of his mistress proud, With longing eyes to meet her face again, 299.

The wealthy Tagus, and the wealthier Rhine, The glory of their towns no more shall boast, And Seyne, that would with Belgian rivers join, Shall find her luftre ftain'd, and traffic loft,

300.

The venturous merchant who defign'd more far, And touches on our hofpitable shore,

Charm'd with the splendor of this northern star, Shall here unlade him, and depart no more,

301.

Our powerful navy shall no longer meet,

The wealth of France or Holland to invade;

The beauty of this town without a fleet,

From all the world shall vindicate her trade.

302.

And while this fam'd emporium we prepare,

The British ocean shall such triumphs boast, That thofe, who now difdain our trade to share, Shall rob like pirates on our wealthy coaft.

303.

Already we have conquer'd half the war,
And the lefs dangerous part is left behind:
Our trouble now is but to make them dare,
And not so great to vanquish as to find.

304.

Thus to the eastern wealth through storms we go, But now, the Cape once doubled, fear no

more;

A constant trade-wind will fecurely blow,

And gently lay us on the spicy fhore.

AN

SATIRE.

ESSAY UPON

By Mr. DRYDEN, and the Earl of MULGRAVE.

OW dull, and how infenfible a beast

HOW

Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest? Philofophers and poets vainly strove

In every age the lumpish mafs to move:

But those were pedants, when compar'd with these,
Who know not only to inftruct but please.
Poets alone found the delightful way,
Mysterious morals gently to convey

In charming numbers; fo that as men grew
Pleas'd with their poems; they grew wiser too.
Satire has always fhone among the reft,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their fouleft faults ;
To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts.
In fatire too the wife took different ways,
To each deferving its peculiar praise.
Some did all folly with just sharpness blame,
Whilft others laugh'd and scorn'd them into shame.

But of these two, the last fucceeded best,
As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest.
Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides,
And cenfure those, who cenfure all befides;
In other things they juftly are preferr'd;

In this alone methinks the ancients err'd
Against the groffest follies they declaim ;
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easier than fuch blots to hit,
And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit:
Befides 'tis labor loft; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Aston teach?
"Tis being devout at play, wife at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find,
Which lie obfcurely in the wifeft mind;
That little fpeck which all the rest does spoil,
To wash off that would be a noble toil;
Beyond the loose writ libels of this age,
Or the forc'd scenes of our declining stage;
Above all cenfure too, each little wit
Will be fo glad to see the greater hit;

Who judging better, though concern'd the