'Or Virgil's majefty, and Homer's rage,
Had ne'er like lafting nature vanquish'd age.
Whilft Lewis then his rifing terror drowns

With drums' alarms, and trumpets' founds,
Whilft, hid in arm'd retreats and guarded towns,
From danger as from honour far,

He bribes clofe murder againft open war:
In vain you Gallic Muses strive

With labour'd verfe to keep his fame alive :
Your mouldering monuments in vain ye raise
On the weak bafis of the tyrant's praise:
Your fongs are fold, your numbers are profane,
'Tis incenfe to an idol given,

Meat offer'd to Prometheus' man

That had no foul from Heaven.

Against his will, you chain your frighted king
On rapid Rhine's divided bed;

And mock your hero, whilft ye fing

The wounds for which he never bled;

Falfhood does poifon on your praise diffuse,
And Lewis' fear gives death to Boileau's Mufe.

VIII.

'On its own worth true majesty is rear'd,

And Virtue is her own reward;

With folid beams and native glory bright,
She neither darknefs dreads, nor covets light;
True to herself, and fix'd to inborn laws,
Nor funk by fpite, nor lifted by applaufe,
She from her fettled orb looks calmly down,
On life or death, a prifon or a crown.

When

When bound in double chains poor Belgia lay,
To foreign arms and inward ftrife a prey,
Whilst one good man buoy'd up her finking state,
And Virtue labour'd against Fate;

When Fortune basely with Ambition join'd,
And all was conquer'd but the Patriot's mind;
When storms let loose, and raging feas,
Juft ready the torn veffel to o'erwhelm,
Forc'd not the faithful pilot from his helm,
Nor all the Syren fongs of future peace,
And dazzling profpect of a promis'd crown,
Could lure his ftubborn virtue down;
But against charms, and threats, and hell, he stood,
To that which was feverely good;

Then, had no trophies justified his fame,
No Poet bleft his fong with Naffau's name,
Virtue alone did all that honour bring,
And Heaven as plainly pointed out THE KING,
As when he at the altar flood

In all his types and robes of power,
Whilft at his feet religious Britain bow'd,
And own'd him next to what we there adore.

IX.

Say, joyful Maefe, and Boyne's victorious flood,
(For each has mixt his waves with royal blood)
When William'- armies past, did he retire,
Or view from far the battle's diftant fire?
Could he believe his perfon was too dear?
Or ufe his greatnefs to conceal his fear?

Are in no plots; but fairly drive at
The public welfare, in your private ;
And will for England's glory try
Turks, Jews, and Jesuits, to defy,
And keep your places till you die.

For me, whom wandering fortune threw
From what I lov'd, the town and you:
Let me just tell you how my time is
Paft in a country life.-Imprimis,
As foon as Phoebus' rays infpect us,
First, Sir, I read, and then I breakfaft;
So on, till forefaid god does fet,
I fometimes study, fometimes eat.
Thus, of your heroes and brave boys,
With whom old Homer makes fuch noife,
The greatest actions I can find,

Are, that they did their work, and din'd.

The books, of which I 'm chiefly fond,
Are fuch as you have whilom conn'd;
That treat of China's civil law,
And fubjects' right in Golconda ;
Of highway-elephants at Ceylan,

That rob in clans, like men o' th' Highland;
Of

apes that ftorm, or keep a town,

As well almoft as Count Lauzun;
Of unicorns and alligators,

Elks, mermaids, mummies, witches, fatyrs,
And twenty other ftranger matters;

}

Which, though they 're things I've no concern in, Make all our grooms admire my learning.

Criticks

Criticks I read on other men,
And hypers upon them again;
From whose remarks I give opinion

On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one.

Then all wits that fleer and sham,
your

Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram;
From whom I jefts and puns purloin,
And flily put them off for mine:
Fond to be thought a country wit:
The rest-when fate and you think fit.
Sometimes I climb my mare, and kick her
To bottled ale, and neighbouring vicar ;
Sometimes at Stamford take a quart,
Squire Shephard's health With all my heart.
Thus, without much delight or grief,

I fool away an idle life:

Till Shadwell from the town retires

(Choak'd up with fame and fea-coal fires),
To bless the wood with peaceful lyrick:
Then hey for praise and panegyrick;
Juftice reftor'd, and nations freed,

And wreaths round William's glorious head.

To the COUNTESS of DORSET. Written in her Milton. By Mr. BRADBURY.

SEE here how bright the firft-born virgin fhone,

And bow the first fond lover was undone. Such charming words, our beauteous mother spoke, As Milton wrote, and such as yours her look.

Yours

Yours, the beft copy of th' original face,
Whose beauty was to furnish all the race:
Such chains no author could escape but he
There's no way to be safe, but not to see.

;

To the Lady DURSLEY. On the fame Subject.

HE

ERE reading how fond Adam was betray'd, And how by fin Eve's blafted charms decay'd ; Our common loss unjustly you complain; So small that part of it, which you fuftain. You ftill, fair mother, in your offspring trace The stock of beauty destin'd for the race: Kind nature, forming them, the pattern took From Heaven's first work, and Eve's original look. You, happy faint, the ferpent's power controul : Scarce foul: actual guilt defiles any And hell does o'er that mind vain triumph boast, Which gains a Heaven, for earthly Eden loft.

your

With virtue ftrong as yours had Eve been arm'd,
In vain the fruit had blush'd, or ferpent charm'd;
Nor had our blifs by penitence been bought;
Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote.

To my Lord BUCKHURST, very young,
playing with a CAT.

THE amorous youth, whose tender breast
Was by his darling cat poffeft,

Obtain'd of Venus his defire,

Howe'er irregular his fire:

Nature