At leifure hours, in epic fong he deals,
Writes to the rumbling of his coach's wheels,
Prescribes in hafte, and feldom kills by rule,
But rides triumphant between stool and stool.
Well, let him go; 'tis yet too early day,
To get himself a place in farce or play.

We knew not by what name we should arraign him.
For no one category can contain him;

A pedant, canting preacher, and a quack,
Are load enough to break one ass's back :
At laft grown wanton, he prefum'd to write,
Traduc'd two kings, their kindness to requite;
One made the doctor, and one dubb'd the knight.

}

XL.

EPILOGUE to the PILGRIM.

PERHAPS the Parfon ftretch'd a point too far,

with our Theatres he wag'd a war.

He tells you, that this very moral age

Receiv'd the first infection from the stage.

But fure, a banish'd court, with lewdness fraught,
The feeds of open vice, returning, brought.
Thus lodg'd (as vice by great example thrives)
It first debauch'd the daughters and the wives.
London, a fruitful foil, yet never bore
So plentiful a crop of horns before.
The Poets, who must live by courts, or starve,
Were proud, fo good a government to ferve;

And, mixing with buffoons and pimps prophane,
Tainted the Stage, for fome finall fnip of gain.
For they, like harlots, under bawds profeft,
Took all th' ungodly pains, and got the leaft.
Thus did the thriving malady prevail,
The court its head, the Poets but the tail.

The fin was of our native growth, 'tis true;
The fcandal of the fin was wholly new.
Miffes they were, but modeftly conceal'd;
White-hall the naked Venus firft reveal'd.
Who ftanding as at Cyprus, in her fhrine,
The ftrumpet was ador'd with rites divine.
Ere this, if faints had any fecret motion,
Twas chamber-practice all, and close devotion.
I pafs the peccadillos of their time;
Nothing but open lewdnefs was a crime.
A monarch's blood was venial to the nation,
Compar'd with one foul act of fornication.
Now, they would filence us, and shut the door,
That let in all the bare-fac'd vice before.
As for reforming us, which fome pretend,
That work in England is without an end :
Well may we change, but we shall never mend.

Yet, if you can but bear the present Stage,
We hope much better of the coming age.
What would you fay, if we should first begin
To stop the trade of love behind the scene:
Where aftreffes make bold with married men ?
For while abroad fo prodigal the dolt is,
Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is.

}

}

In fhort, 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 ftill your Oats, and we our Hains.

E

PIGR A M,

On the Dutchefs of PORTSMOUTH'S Pi&ure.

S

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 fhe a poet, fhe would furely boast,
That all the world for pearls had well been loft.

EPITAPH.

Intended for Mr. DRYDEN'S Wife.

HERE lies my wife: here let her lie!

Now the 's at rest, and so am I.

}

DESCRIPTION of old JACOB TONSON*. WITH leering look, bull-fac'd, and freckled fais,

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.

VERSES TO MR. DRYDEN.

To the unknown AUTHOR of ABSALOM and ACHITOPHEL.

AKE it as earneft of a faith renew'd,

ΤΑ

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 frook 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 raise,
Bow in their own defpite, 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 splay.
'Tis gracious all, and great: Push 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.

VOL. II.

U

The

The beauties of your Absalom excel :

But more the charms of charming Annabel:

Of Annabel, than May's first morn more bright,

Chearful as fummer's noon, and chaste as winter's night.
Of Annabel, the Muses dearest theme;

Of Annabel, the angel of my dream.
Thus let a broken eloquence attend,

And to your master-piece these shadows send.

NAT. LEE.

**Mr DUKE's verfes to Mr Dryden may be seen

in the volume of his Poems.

To the concealed AUTHOR 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 vaft 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 ftubborn language he prevails,
And makes the Helicon in which he fails;