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 Dutchess of PORTSMOUTH'S Picture.

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 she a poet, she would surely boaft,
That all the world for pearls had well been loft.

H

ΕΡΙTAPH.

Intended for Mr. DRYDEN'S Wife.

ERE lies my wife: here let her lie!
Now she'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 refusing to give Dryden the price he asked for his Virgil, the Poet sent 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.

TAKE it as earnest of a faith renew'd,

Your theme is vast, your verse divinely good : Where, though the Nine their beautecus strokes repeat, And the turn'd lines on golden anvils beat, It looks as if they strook 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 spirit seen, whose 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 despite, and grin your praise; As if a Milton from the deal arose, Fil'd off the rust, and the right party chofe. Nor, Sir, be shock'd at what the gloomy say; 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 dindem. David, that rebel Ifrael's envy mov'd; David, by God and all good men belov'd. VOL, IL.

U

}

The

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 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 fend.

NAT. LEE.

*** Mr DUKE'S verses to Mr Dryden may be seen in the volume of his Poems.

To the concealed AUTHOR OF ABSALOMм and ACHITOPHEL.

HAIL, heaven-born Muse! hail, every facred page !

The glory of our ifle and of our age.

Th' inspiring 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 shines.
The rock obey'd the powerful Hebrew guide,
Her flinty breast dissolv'd into a tide :

}

?

Thus on our stubborn language he prevails,

And makes the Helicon in which he fails;

}

The dialect, as well as sense, invents,
And, with his poem, a new speech presents.
Hail then, thou matchless 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 strikes 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 cause, whose growth to crush, our prelates wrote
In vain, almost in vain our heroes fought;
Yet by one ftab of your keen satire dies :
Before your facred lines their shatter'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 express,
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.

N. TATE.

Upon the AUTH OR of the MEDAL.

more our awful poet arms, t'engage

NCE

The threatening hydra-faction of the age;

Once more prepares his dreadful pen to wield,
And every Muse attends him to the field.

By art and nature for this task defign'd,
Yet modeftly the fight he long declin'd;
Forbore the torrent of his verse 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.

Blest Muse, whose wit with such a cause was crown'd,
And bleft the cause that fuch a champion found!
With chofen verse upon the foe he falls,
And black sedition 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 distinction sheds,
Hurls mortal bolts, but on devoted heads;
To less-infected members gentle found,
Or fpares, or else pours balm into the wound.
Such generous grace th' ingrateful tribe abuse,
And trespass on the mercy of his Muse :
Their wretched doggrel rhymers forth they bring,
To fnarl and bark against the poets' king;
A crew, that scandalize the nation more,
Than all their treason-canting priests before.
On these he scarce vouchsafes a scornful smile,
But on their powerful patrons turns his style:
A style so keen, as ev'n from faction draws
The vital poison, stabs to th' heart their cause.
Take then, great Bard, what tribute we can raise;
Accept our thanks, for you transcend our praise.