TO A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR,

A PERSON OF HONOUR,

Who lately writ a religious book, intituled, "Hiftorical Applications, and Occasional Meditations upon

"feveral fubjects."

OLD is the man that dares engage

For piety, in fuch an age!

Who can presume to find a guard

From fcorn, when Heaven 's fo little spar'd?
Divines are pardon'd; they defend

Altars on which their lives depend:

But the prophane impatient are,
When nobler pens make this their care:
For why should these let in a beam
Of divine light, to trouble them;
And call in doubt their pleafing thought,
That none believes what we are taught?
High birth and fortune warrant give
That fuch men write what they believe:
And, feeling first what they indite,
New credit give to antient light.
Amongst these few, our author brings
His well-known pedigree from Kings.
This book, the image of his mind,
Will make his name not hard to find:
I wish the throng of Great and Good
Made it lefs eafily understood!

ΤΟ

Upon his incomparable, incomprehensible Poem, intituled, THE BRITISH PRINCES.

IR! you've oblig'd the British nation more,

SIR

Than all their Bards could ever do before;
And, at your own charge, monuments as hard
As brass or marble, to your fame have rear'd.
For, as all warlike nations take delight
To hear how their brave ancestors could fight;
You have advanc'd to wonder their renown,
And no lefs virtuously improv'd your own:
That 'twill be doubtful, whether you do write,
Or they have acted, at a nobler height.
You, of your antient Princes, have retricv'd
More than the ages knew in which they liv'd:
Explain'd their cuftoms and their rights anew,
Better than all their Druids ever knew:
Unriddled thofe dark oracles, as well

As those that made them, could themselves foretell.
For, as the Britons long have hop'd in vain,
Arthur would come to govern them again:
You have fulfill'd that prophecy alone,
And in your Poem plac'd him on his throne.
Such magic power has your prodigious pen,
To raise the dead, and give new life to men:
Make rival Princes meet in arms and love,
Whom diftant
ages did fo far remove.

For, as eternity has neither past

Nor future, authors say, nor first nor laft;
But is all inftant; your eternal Muse
All ages can to any one reduce.

Then why should you, whofe miracles of art
Can life at pleasure to the dead impart,
Trouble in vain your better-bufied head,

T' obferve what times they liv'd in, or were dead?
For, fince you have fuch arbitrary power,

It were defect in judgment to go lower;
Or ftoop to things fo pitifully lewd,
As ufe to take the vulgar latitude.

your

For no man's fit to read what you have writ,
That holds not fome proportion with wit.
As light can no way but by light appear,
He must bring sense, that understands it here.

W

TO MR. CREECH,

On his Tranflation of LUCRETIUS.

'HAT all men wish'd, though few could hope
to fee,

We are now bleft with, and oblig'd by thee.
Thou! from the antient learned Latin store,
Giv'ft us one author, and we hope for more.
May they enjoy thy thoughts!-Let not the Stage
The idleft moment of thy hours engage.

Each year that place some wondrous monster breeds,
And the Wits' garden is o'er-run with weeds.
There Farce is Comedy; bombaft call'd strong;
Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.

'Tis hard to say they steal them now-a-days;
For fure the antients never wrote fuch plays.
Thefe fcribbling infects have what they deserve,
Not plenty, nor the glory for to starve.

That Spenfer knew, that Taffo felt before;
And Death found furly Ben exceeding poor.
Heaven turn the omen from their image here!
May he with joy the well-plac'd laurel wear!
Great Virgil's happier fortune may he find,
And be our Cæfar, like Auguftus, kind!

But let not this disturb thy tuneful head;
Thou writ'ft for thy delight, and not for bread:
Thou art not curft to write thy verfe with care;
But art above what other poets fear.

What may we not expect from such a hand,

That has, with books, himself at free command?

Thou know'ft in youth, what age has fought in vain ; And bring'st forth fons without a mother's pain.

So eafy is thy fenfe, thy verfe fo sweet,

Thy words fo proper, and thy phrase so fit;

We read, and read again: and still admire

[fire!

Whence came this youth, and whence this wondrous
Pardon this rapture, Sir! But who can be

Cold and unmov'd, yet have his thoughts on thee?
Thy goodness may my feveral faults forgive,
And by your help thefe wretched lines may live.
But if, when view'd by your feverer fight,
They seem unworthy to behold the light;
Let them with speed in deferv'd flames be thrown!
They'll fend no fighs, nor murmur out a groan;
But, dying filently, your juftice own.

THE

TRIPLE

COMBAT.

W

'HEN through the world fair Mazarine had run, Bright as her fellow-traveller, the fun;

Hither at length the Roman eagle flies,

As the last triumph of her conquering eyes.
As heir to Julius, the may pretend

A fecond time to make this island bend.

But Portsmouth, springing from the antient race
Of Britons, which the Saxon here did chase
As they great Cæfar did oppose, makes head,
And does against this new invader lead.
That goodly Nymph, the taller of the two,
Careless and fearless to the field does go.
Becoming blushes on the other wait,

And her young look excuses want of height.
Beauty gives courage; for, fhe knows, the day
Muft not be won the Amazonian way.

Legions of Cupids to the battle come,

For Little Britain these, and those for Rome.
Drefs'd to advantage, this illuftrious pair
Arriv'd, for combat in the lift appear.
What may the Fates defign! for never yet
From diftant regions two such beauties met.
Venus had been an equal friend to both,
And Victory to declare herself feems loth:
Over the camp with doubtful wings the flies;
Till Chloris fhining in the field she spies.
The lovely Chloris well-attended came,
A thousand Graces waited on the dame:

Her