In one what vig'rous Turns of Fancy shine,
In th❜other Syrens warble in each Line,
If Dorset's fprightly Mufe but touch the Lyre,
The Smile's and Graces melt in soft Defire,
And little Loves confefs their am'rous Fire.
The gentle Ifis claims the ivy Crown,
To bind th'immortal Brows of Addifon.
As tuneful Congreve tries his rural Strains,

Pan quits the Woods, the lift'ning Fawns the Plains,
And Philomel, in Notes like his, complains.
When Stepney paints the God-like A&s of Kings,
Or what Apollo dictates Prior fings,

The Banks of Rhine a pleas'd Attention fhow,
And filver Sequana forgets to flow.

Sedley has that prevailing gentle Art,
That can with a refiftlefs Charm impart
The loosest Wishes to the chastest Heart;
Raife fuch a Conflict, kindle fuch a Fire
Between declining Virtue and Defire,

That the poor vanquish'd Maid diffolves away,

In Dreams all Night, in Sighs and Tears all Day.
Such were the Numbers, which could call

The Stones into the Theban Wall.

As there is Mufick uninform'd by Art,

In those wild Notes, which with a merry Heart
The Birds in unfrequented Shades exprefs,
Who better taught at home, yet please us lefs:
So in your Verfe a native Sweetnefs dwells,
Which fhames Composure, and its Art excells.
Singing no more can your foft Numbers grace,
Than Paint add Charms unto a beauteous Face.
Yet as when mighty Rivers gently creep,

Their even Calmnefs does fuppofe them deep:
Such is your Muse;

So firm a Strength, and yet withal fo fweet,

Did never but in Sampfon's Riddle meet. Dryd. to Sir Rob. Howard. The Colours there fo artfully are laid,

They fear no Luftre, and they want no Shade. Stepn. to L. Hallifax.
Not fierce but awful in his manly Page;

Bold is his Strength, but fober is his Rage..
We must admire to fee thy well-knit Senfe,
Thy Numbers gentle, and thy Fancies high,

Dryd. Perf

Those as thy Forehead fmooth, thefe fparkling as thy Eye.

Tis folid and 'tis manly all,

Or rather, 'tis angelical.

For, as in Angels, we

Do in thy Verfes fee

Both improv'd Sexes eminently meet;

(Cowl. to Orinda.

They are than Man more ftrong, and more than Woman sweet. With conceal'd Defign

Did crafty Horace his low Numbers join;

And with a fly infinuating Grace

Laugh'd at his Friend, and look'd him in the Face:
Would raise a Blush where fecret Vice he found,
And tickle while he gently prob'd the Wound.
With feeming Innocence the Croud beguil'd,
And made the defperate Paffes when he fmil'd.

Pindar's unnavigable Song

Dryd. Perf..

Like a fwoll'n Flood from fome fteep Mountain pours along; The Ocean meets with fuch a Voice

From his enlarged Mouth, as drowns the Ocean's Noife.

So Pindar does new Words and Figures roll.
Down his impetuous Dithyrambick Tide,
Which in no Channel deigns to'abide;
Which neither Banks nor Dikes controul.
Whether th'immortal Gods he fings
In no lefs immortal Strain,

Or the great Acts of God-defcended Kings,
Who in his Numbers ftill furvive and reign.
Whether at Pifa's Race he please

To carve in polifh'd Verfe the Conqu'rors Images:
Whether the Swift, the Skilful, or the Strong
Be crowned in his nimble, artful, vig'rous Song;
Whether fome brave young Man's untimely Fate,
In Words worth dying for he celebrate.

He bids him live and grow in Fame,
Among the Stars he fticks his Name:
The Grave can but the Drofs of him devour;
So fmall is Death's, fo great's the Poet's Power.
Lo! how th'obfequious Wind and fwelling Air
The Theban Swan does upwards bear
Into the Walks of Clouds, where he does play,
And with extended Wings opens his liquid Way.
While alas! my tim'rous Mufe
Unambitious Tracks pursues ;

Does with weak unballafs'd Wings
About the moffy Brooks and Springs,
About the Trees new-bloffom'd Heads,
About the Gardens painted Beds,
About the Fields and flow'ry Meads,

And all inferiour beauteous things,

Like the laborious Bee,

For little Drops of Honey flee,

And there with humble Sweets content her Industry. Cowl. Her.

Mean

Mean as I am, yet have the Mufes made,
Me free, a Member of the tuneful Trade :
I could have once fung down a Summer's Sun,
But now the Chime of Poetry is done;

My Voice grows hoarfe, I feel the Notes décay;
For Cares and Time

Change all things, and untune my Soul for rhyme. Dryd, Virg.
POLYPHE MUS and his Den.

The Cave, tho' large, was dark: The dismal Floor
Was pav'd with mangled Limbs and putrid Gore.
The monftrous Hoft, of more than human Size,
Erects his Head and ftares within the Skies.
Bellowing his Voice, and horrid is his Hue.
The Joints of flaughter'd Wretches is his Food,
And for his Wine he quaffs the streaming Blood.
These Eyes beheld when with his fpacious Hand
He feiz'd two Captives of the Grecian Band;
Stretch'd on his Back, he dafh'd against the Stones
Their broken Bodies and their crackling Bones:
With fpouting Blood the purple Pavement fwims,
While the dire Glutton grinds the trembling Limbs.
Thus gorg'd with Flesh, and drunk with human Wine,
While fast asleep the Giant lay fupine,

Snoring aloud, and belching from his Maw
His indigested Foam and Morfels raw;

We furround

The monftrous Body ftretch'd along the Ground a
Each, as he could approach, him lends a Hand
To bore his Eye-ball with a flaming Brand.
Beneath his frowning Forehead lay his Eye;
For only one did the vaft Frame fupply;
But that a Globe fo large, his Front it fill'd;
Like the Sun's Disk, or like a Grecian Shield.
The Stroke fucceeds, and down the Pupil bends.
Such, and fo vaft as Polypheme appears,

A hundred more this hated Island bears:

Like him, in Caves they fhut their woolly Sheep,
Like him their Herds on Tops of Mountains keep;

Like him with mighty Strides they ftalk from Steep to Steep.
I oft from Rocks a dreadful Profpect fee

Of the huge Cyclops, like a walking Tree:

From far I hear his thund'ring Voice refound,

And trampling Feet that fhake the folid Ground.
Scarce had he faid, when on the Mountain's Brow,
We faw the Giant-Shephard ftalk before

His foll'wing Flock, and leading to the Shore.

}

A Mon

A monftrous Bulk, deform'd, depriv'd of Sight:
His Staff a Trunk of Pine, to guide his Steps aright.
His pond'rous Whistle from his Neck defcends;
His woolly Care their penfive Lord attends ;
This only Solace his hard Fortune fends.

Soon as he reach'd the Shore, and touch'd the Waves,
From his gor'd Eye the gutt'ring Blood he laves;

He gnash'd his Teeth and groan'd; thro' Seas he ftrides,
And scarce the topmoft Billows touch'd his Sides.
Siez'd with a fuddain Fear, we run to Sea,

And buckling to the Work, our Oars divide the Main.
The Giant hearken'd to the dafhing Sound;
But when our Veffel out of Reach he found,
He ftrided downward, and in vain effay'd
Th'Ionian Deep, and durft no farther wade
With that he roar'd aloud; the dreadful Cry
Shakes Earth, and Air, and Seas; the Billows fly
Before the bell'wing Noife, to diftant Italy.
The neighb'ring Etna trembling all around,
The winding Caverns echo to the Sound.
His Brother Cyclops hear the yelling Roar,
And rufhing down the Mountains crowd the Shōar:
We faw their ftern distorted Looks from far,
And one-ey'd Glance that vainly threaten'd War.
A dreadful Council, with their Heads on high,
The mifty Clouds about their Foreheads fly;
Not yielding to the tow'ring Tree of Jove,
Or talleft Cyprefs of Diana's Grove.

POPULACE.

The Vulgar, a fcarce-animated Clod,

}

Dryd. Virg.

Ne'er pleas'd with ought above 'em, Prince of God. Dryd. Aaren. That hot-mouth'd Beaft that bears against the Curb;

Hard to be broken ev'n by lawful Kings,

But harder by Ufurpers.

Almighty Crowd! thou fhorten'ft all Difpute:

Pow'r is thy Effence, Wit thy Attribute.

Nor Faith nor Reafon makes thee at a Stay,

(Dryd. Med.

Thou leap'ft o'er all eternal Truths in thy pindarick Way.
Bafe mongril Souls! fleth 'em but once with Fortune,

And they will worry Royalty to Death:

But if fome crabbed Virtue turn and pinch'em,

They'll run, and yelp, and clap their Tails,

(Gaife:

Like Curs, betwixt their Legs, and howl for Mercy. Lee D. of

Diffentious Rogues,

That rubbing the poor Itch of your Opinions,

Make your felves Scabs.

That like not Peace nor War; the one affrights you,

Bb

The

The other makes you proud.

Who deferves Greatness

Deferves your Hate. Your Affections are
A fick Man's Appetite, who defires most that
Which would encrease his Evil. He that depends
Upon your Favours, fwims with Fins of Lead.
The Scum

That rifes upmoft when the Nation boils.

The Rabble gather round the Man of News, And liften with their Mouths.

Shak. Coriol.

Dryd. Don Seb.

Some tell, fome hear, fome judge of News, fome make it; And he that lies moft loud, is most believ'd.

Dryd. Span. Fry.

The Streets are thicker in this Noon of Night
Than at the mid-day Sun: A drowzy Horrour
Sits on their Eyes, like Fear not well awake.
All crowd in Heaps, as at a Night Alarm,
The Bees drive out upon each others Backs
T'imbofs their Hives in Clufters: All ask News:
Their bufy Captain runs the weary Round

To whisper Orders; and commanding Silence,

Makes not Noise cease, but deafens it to Murmurs. Dr. Don Seb. The Commonwealth is fick of their own Choice;

Their over-greedy Love has furfeited:

A Habitation giddy and unfure

Has he that builds upon the vulgar Hearts.

O thou fond Many! with what loud Applaufe
Did'st thou beat Heav'n with bleffing Bullingbrook,
Before he was what thou would'ft have him be?
But being trimm'd up in thy own Defires,
Thou beaftly Feeder art fo full of him,
That thou provok'ft thy felf to caft him up.
So, fo, thou common Dog, didft thou disgorge
Thy glutton Bofom of the royal Richard;
And now thou would't eat thy dead Vomit up,

And howl'ft to find it. What Truft is in thefe Times?
They that when Richard liv'd would have him die,

Are now become enamour'd of his Grave:

Thou that threw'ft Duft upon his goodly Head,
When thro' proud London he came fighing on
After th'admir'd Heels of Bullingbrook ;

Cry'ft now, O Earth! yield us that King again,
And take thou this.

Shak. 2 Part Hen. 4.

The Genius of your Moors is Mutiny :
They fcarcely want a Guide to move their Madness.
Prompt to rebel on ev'ry weak Pretence,

Bluft'ring when courted, crouching when opprefs'd;
Wife to themselves, and Fools to all the World;

Reftlefs