inconstant King.
Could Laughter thence, here melting pity raise
In his Amyntors, and Aspasia's.
But Rome and Athens must the Plots produce
With France, the Handmaid of the English Muse

Shakespear. Ev'n Shakespear sweated in his narrow Isle,
And Subject Italy obey'd his Stile.
Boccace and Cinthio must a tribute pay,
T'inrich his Scenes, and furnish out a Play.
Tho' Art ne're taught him how to write by Rules,
Or borrow Learning from Athenian Schools:
Yet He, with Plautus, could instruct and please,
* See Plutarch's Life of Theseus. And what requir'd long toil, perform with ease.
By inborn strength so Theseus bent the Pine,
Which cost the Robber many Years Design[*].

Tho' sometimes rude, unpolish'd and undrest
His Sentence flows, more careless than the rest.
Yet, when his Muse, complying with his will,
Deigns with informing heat his Breast to fill,
Then hear him thunder in the Pompous strain
Of Æschylus, or sooth in Ovid's vein.
I feel a Pity working in my Eyes,
When Desdemona by Othello dyes.
When I view Brutus in his Dress appear;
I know not how to call him too severe.
His rigid Vertue there attories for all,
And makes a Sacrifice of Cæsar's Fall.

Nature work'd Wonders then; when Shakespear dy'd
Cowley.* Ovid was born the same year in which Cicero dy'd.Her Cowley rose, drest in her gaudy Pride.
So from great Ruins a new Life she calls,
And Builds an Ovid[*] when a Tully Falls.

With what Delight he tunes his Silver-Strings,
And David's Toils in David's numbers Sings?
Hark! how he Murmurs to the Fields and Groves,
His rural Pleasures, and his various Loves,
Yet every Line so Innocent and Clear,
Hermits may read them to a Virgin's Ear.
Unstoln Promethean Fire informs his Song,
Rich is his Fancy, his Invention strong.
His Wit, unfathom'd, has a fresh Supply,
Is always flowing-out, but never Dry.

Sure the profuseness of a boundless Thought,
Unjustly is imputed for a Fault.
A Spirit, that is unconfin'd and free,
Should hurry forward, like the Wind or Sea.
Which laughs at Laws and Shackles, when a Vain
Presuming Xerxes shall pretend to Reign,
And on the flitting Air impose his pond'rous Chain.

Hail English Swan? for You alone could dare
With well-pois'd Pinions tempt th' unbounded Air:
And to your Lute Pindaric Numbers call,
Nor fear the Danger of a threatned Fall.
O had You liv'd to Waller's Reverend Age,
Better'd your Measures, and reform'd your Page!
Then Britain's Isle might raise her Trophies high,
And Solid Rome, or Witty Greece outvy.
The Rhine, the Tyber, and Parisian Sein,
When e're they pay their Tribute to the Main,
Should no sweet Song more willingly rehearse,
Than gentle Cowley's never-dying Verse.
The Thames should sweep his briny way before,
And with his Name salute each distant Shore.Milton.

Then You, like Glorious Milton had been known
To Lands which Conquest has insur'd our Own.
Milton! whose Muse Kisses th' embroider'd Skies,
While Earth below grows little, as She Flies.
Thro' trackless Air she bends her winding Flight,
Far as the Confines of retreating Light.
Tells the sindg'd Moor, how scepter'd Death began
His Lengthning Empire o'er offending Man.
Unteaches conquer'd Nations to Rebel,
By Singing how their Stubborn Parents fell.

Now Seraphs crown'd with Helmets I behold,
Helmets of Substance more refin'd than Gold:
The Skies with an united Lustre shine,
And Face to Face th' Immortal Armies joyn.
God's plated Son, Majestically gay,
Urges his Chariot thro' the Chrystal-Way
Breaks down their Ranks, and Thunders, as he Flies,
Arms in his Hands, and Terrour in his Eyes.
O'er Heav'ns wide Arch the routed Squadrons Rore,
And transfix d Angels groan upon the Diamond-Floor.
Then, wheeling from Olympus Snowy top,
Thro' the scorch'd Air the giddy Leaders drop
Down to th' Abyss of their allotted Hell,
And gaze on the lost Skies from whence they Fell.

I see the Fiend, who tumbled from his Sphere
Once by the Victor God, begins to fear
New Lightning, and a Second Thunderer.
I hear him Yell, and argue with the Skies,
Was't not enough, Relentless Power! he cries,
Despair of better state, and loss of Light
Irreparable? Was not loathsom Night
And ever-during Dark sufficient Pain,
But Man must Triumph, by our Fall to Reign,
And Register the Fate which we Sustain?
Hence Hell is doubly Ours: Almighty Name
Hence, after Thine, we feel the Poet's Flame
And in Immortal Song renew Reviving shame.

O Soul Seraphick, teach us how we may
Thy Praise adapted to thy Worth display,
For who can Merit more? or who enough can Pay?
Earth was unworthy Your aspiring View,
Sublimer Objects were reserv'd for You.
Thence Nothing mean obtrudes on Your Design,
Your Style is equal to Your Theme Divine,
All Heavenly great, and more than Masculine.
Tho' neither Vernal Bloom, nor Summer's Rose
Their op'ning Beauties could to Thee disclose.
Tho' Nature's curious Characters, which we
Exactly view, were all eras'd to Thee.
Yet Heav'n stood Witness to Thy piercing sight,
Below was Darkness, but Above was Light:
Thy Soul was Brightness all; nor would it stay
In nether Night, and such a want of Day.
But wing'd aloft from sordid Earth retires
To upper Glory, and its kindred-Fires:
Like an unhooded Hawk, who, loose to Prey,
With open Eyes pursues th' Ethereal Way.
There, Happy Soul, assume thy destin'd Place,
And in yon Sphere begin thy glorious Race:
Or, if amongst the Laurel'd Heads there be
A Mansion in the Skies reserv'd for Thee,
There Ruler of thy Orb aloft appear,
And rowl with Homer in the brightest Sphere;
To whom Calliope has joyn'd thy Name,
And recompens'd thy Fortunes with his Fame.

Tho' She (forgive our freedom) sometimes Flows
In Lines too Rugged, and akin to Prose.
Verse with a lively smoothness should be Wrote,
When room is granted to the Speech and Thought.
Like some fair Planet, the Majestick SongWaller.
Should gently move, and sparkle as it rowls along.
Like Waller's Muse, who tho' inchain'd by Rhime,
Taught wondring Poets to keep even Chime.
His Praise inflames my breast, and should be shown
In Numbers sweet and Courtly as his Own.
Who no unmanly Turns of Thought pursues,
Rash Errours of an injudicious Muse.
Such Wit, like Lightning, for a while looks Gay,
Just gilds the Place, and vanishes away.
In one continu'd blaze He upwards sprung,
Like those Seraphick flames of which He Sung.
If, Cromwel, he laments thy Mighty Fall
Nature attending Weeps at the Great Funeral.
Or if his Muse with joyful Triumph brings
the Monarch to His Ancient Throne, or Sings
Batavians worsted on the Conquer'd Main,
Fleets flying, and advent'rous Opdam Slain,
Then Rome and Athens