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Methinks already from this chemic flame,
I fee a city of more precious mold:
Rich as the town which gives the Indies name,
With filver pav'd, and all divine with gold.
Already labouring 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.
More great than human now, and more auguft,
Now deify'd fhe from her fires does rife :
Her widening ftreets on new foundations truft,
And opening into larger parts fhe flies.
Before fhe like fome fhepherdefs did fhow,
Who fat to bathe her by a river's fide;
Not anfwering to her fame, but rude and low,
Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride.
Now like a maiden queen the will behold,
From her high turrets, hourly fuitors come:
The East with incense, and the Weft with gold,
Will ftand like fuppliants to receive her doom.
The filver Thames, her own domeftic flood,
Shall bear her veffels like a fweeping train;
And often wind, as of his mistress proud,
With longing eyes to meet her face again.
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.
The venturous merchant who defign'd more far,
And touches on our hofpitable fhore,
Charm'd with the fplendor of this northern star,
Shall here unlade him, and depart no more.
Our powerful navy fhall no longer meet,
The wealth of France or Holland to invade :
The beauty of this town without a fleet,
From all the world fhall vindicate her trade.
And while this fam'd emporium we prepare,
The British ocean fhall fuch triumphs boaft,
That thofe, who now difdain our trade to fhare,
Shall rob like pirates on our wealthy coaft.
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 fo great to vanquish as to find. CCCIV.
Thus to the eastern wealth through storms we go,
But the Cape once doubled, fear no more;
A conftant trade-wind will fecurely blow,
And gently lay us on the fpicy fhore.
ESSAY UPON SATIRE.
By Mr DRYDEN, and the Earl of MULGRAVE.
HOW dull, and how infenfible a beast
Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest!
Philofophers and poets vainly ftrove
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 rest,
And is the boldeft way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their foulest 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 juft sharpness blame,
Whilst others laugh'd and scorn'd them into shame.
But of these two, the laft fucceeded beft,
As men aim rightest when they shoot in jeft.
Yet, if we may prefume to blame our guides,
And cenfure thofe who cenfure all befides;
In other things they justly are preferr'd:
In this alone methinks the ancients err'd;
Against the groffeft 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 labour loft; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Afton teach?
'Tis being devout at play, wise at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with fharp eyes thofe nicer faults to find,
Which lie obfcurely in the wifest mind;
That little fpeck which all the reft does spoil,
To wash off that would be a noble toil;
Beyond the loose-writ libels of this age,
Or the forc'd fcenes of our declining stage;
Above all cenfure too, each little wit
Will be fo glad to fee the greater hit;
Who judging better, though concern'd the most,
Of fuch correction will have caufe to boaft.
In fuch a fatire all would feek a fhare,
And every fool will fancy he is there.
Old ftory-tellers too must pine and die,
To fee their antiquated wit laid by;
Like her, who mifs'd her name in a lampoon,
And griev'd to find herself decay'd fo foon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here:
Not the dull train of dancing sparks appear;
Nor fluttering officers who never fight;
Of fuch a wretched rabble who would write?
Much lefs half wits: that's more against our rules ;
For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as filly as Dunbar ?
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr?
The cunning courtier should be flighted too,
Who with dull knavery makes so much ado
Till the fhrewd fool, by thriving too too fast,
Like Æfop's fox becomes a prey at last.
Nor fhall the royal mistresses be nam'd,
Too ugly, or too easy, to be blam'd;
With whom each rhyming fool keeps fuch a pother,
They are as common that way as the other :
Yet fauntering Charles, between his beaftly brace,
Meets with diffembling still in either place,
Affected humour, or a painted face.
In loyal libels we have often told him,
How one has jilted him, the other sold him :
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep;
But who can rail fo long as he can sleep?
Was ever prince by two at once misled,
Falfe, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred?
Earnely and Aylesbury, with all that race
Of bufy blockheads, fhall have here no place ;
At council fet as foils on Dorfet's score,
To make that great false jewel shine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wife,
Only for taking pains and telling lies.
But there's no meddling with fuch nauseous men ;
Their very names have tir'd my lazy pen :