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Late let him fing above, and let us know
No fweeter mufic, than his cries below.

Nor can I wish to you, great Monarch, more
Than fuch an annual income to your store;
The day, which gave this Unit, did not fhine
For a lefs omen, than to fill the Trine.
After a Prince, an Admiral beget;
The Royal Sov'reign wants an anchor yet.
Our ifle has younger titles ftill in store,
And when th' exhaufted land can yield no more,
Your line can force them from a foreign fhore.

The name of Great your martial mind will fuit;
But juftice is your darling attribute:

Of all the Greeks, 'twas but one hero's due,
And, in him, Plutarch prophefy'd of you,
A prince's favours but on few can fall,
But juftice is a virtue fhar'd by all.

Some kings the name of conqu'rors have affum'd,
Some to be great, fome to be gods prefum'd;
But boundless pow'r, and arbitrary luft,
Made tyrants ftill abhor the name of Juft;
They fhunn'd the praise this god-like virtue gives,
And fear'd a title, that reproach'd their lives.

The pow'r, from which all kings derive their state, Whom they pretend, at least, to imitate,

Is equal both to punish and reward;

For few wou'd love their God, unless they fear'd.
Refiftless force and immortality

Make but a lame, imperfect, deity:

*Ariftides. See his life in Plutarch.

Tempefts have force unbounded to defroy,
And deathless being e'en the damn'd enjoy;
And yet Heaven's attributes, both last and first,
One without life, and one with life accurst :
But juftice is Heaven's self, so strictly he,
That cou'd it fail, the Godhead cou'd not be.
This virtue is your own; but life and state
Are one to fortune fubject, one to fate:
Equal to all, you justly frown or smile;
Nor hopes, nor fears your steady hand beguile;
Yourself our balance hold, the world's our ifle.

SATYR upon the DUTCH,

A

Written in the Year 1662.

S needy gallants, in the fcriv'ner's hands,

Court the rich knaves that gripe their mortgag'd
lands;

The first fat buck of all the feafon's fent,
And keeper takes no fee in compliment;
The dotage of fome Englishmen is fuch,

To fawn on thofe, who ruin them, the Dutch.
They fhall have all, rather than make a war
With thofe, who of the fame religion are.
The Straits, the Guinea-trade, the herrings too;
Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you.
Some are refolv'd not to find out the cheat,
But cuckold-like, love them that do the feat.

What injuries foc'er upon us fall,

Yet ftill the fame religion answers all.
Religion wheedl'd us to civil war,

Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now wou'd fpare.
Be gull'd no longer; for you'll find it true,
They have no more religion, faith! than you.
Int'reft's the god they worship in their state,
And we, I take it, have not much of that.
Well monarchies may own religion's name,
But states are atheists in their very frame.
They share a fin; and fuch proportions fall,
That, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all.
Think on their rapine, falfhood, cruelty,

And that what once they were, they still wou'd be.
To one well-born th' affront is worse and more,
When he's abus'd and baffl'd by a boor.
With an ill grace the Dutch their mischiefs do;
They've both ill nature and ill manners too.
Well may they boaft themfelves an ancient nation;
For they were bred ere manners were in fathion :
And their new commonwealth has fet them free
Only from honour and civility.

Venetians do not more uncouthly ride,

Than did their lubber ftate mankind beftride.
Their fway became 'em with as ill a mien,
As their own paunches fwell above their chin.
Yet is their empire no true growth but humour,
And only two kings touch can cure the tumour.
As Cato did in Afric fruits difplay;

Let us before our eyes their Indies lay:
All loyal English will like him conclude;
Let Cæfar live, and Carthage be fubdu’d.

MAC FLECKNOE.

A

LL human things are fubject to decay,

And, when fate fummons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young
Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long;
In profe and verse, was own'd, without difpute,
Through all the realms of nonfenfe, abfolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
And bleft with iffue of a large increase;
Worn out with bufinefs, did at length debate
To fettle the fucceffion of the state:

And, pond'ring, which of all his fons was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit,
Cry'd, 'Tis refolv'd; for nature pleads, that he,
Should only rule, who most resembles me.
Sh----- alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulness from his tender years:
Sh------ alone, of all my fons, is he,
Who ftands confirm'd in full ftupidity.
The reft to fome faint meaning make pretence,
But Sh-- never deviates into fenfe.

Some beams of wit on other fouls may fall,

Strike through, and make a lucid interval;
But Sh's genuine night admits no ray,
His rifing fogs prevail upon the day.
Befides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And feems defign'd for thoughtless majesty:

VOL. I.]

Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that fhade the plain,
And, fpread in folemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou laft great prophet of tautology.
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was fent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarfely clad in Norwich drugget, came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung,
When to King John of Portugal 1 fung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on filver Thames didft cut thy way,
With well-tim'd oars before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge:
And big with hymn, commander of an host,
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets toft.
Methinks I fee the new Arion fail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-fharpen'd thumb from shore to shore
The trebles fqueak for fear, the bases roar :
Echoes from Piffing-Alley Sh----- call,
And Sh--they refound from Afton-Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toaft, that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not ev'n the feet of thy own Pfyche's rhime:
Though they in number as in fenfe excel;
So juft, fo like tautology, they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forfwore

The lute and fword, which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.

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