PROLOGUE to the University of OXFORD, 1681.
HE fam'd Italian Muse, whofe Rhymes advance
Orlando, and the Paladins of France,
Records, that when our Wit and Senfe is flown,
'Tis lodg'd within the Circle of the Moon
In Earthen Jars, which one, who thither foar'd,
Set to his Nofe, fnufft up, and was reftor'd.
What e'er the Story be, the Moral's true,
'The Wit we loft in Town, we find in you.
Our Poets their fled Parts may draw from hence,
And fill their windy Heads with fober Sense.
When London Votes with Southwark's disagree,
Here may they find their long loft Loyalty.
Here bufie Senates, to th' old Caufe inclin'd,
May fnuff the Votes their Fellows left behind :
Your Country Neighbours, when their Grain grows
May come and find their last Provision here:
Whereas we cannot much lament our Lofs,
Who neither carry'd back, nor brought one Crofs;
We look'd what Reprefentatives wou'd bring,
But they help'd us, just as they did the King.
Yet we despair not, for we now lay forth
The Sibyll's Books, to those who know their Worth:
And tho' the firft was Sacrific'd before,
These Volumes doubly will the Price restore.
Our Poet bade us hope this Grace to find,
To whom by long Prescription you are kind.
He, whofe undaunted Mufe, with Loyal Rage,
Has never fpar'd the Vices of the Age,
Here finding nothing that his Spleen can raise,
Is forc'd to turn his Satyr into Praise.
Accept, great Son of Art, this faint effect
Of a moft active, and unfeign'd Respect: Numbers that yield (Alas!) too juft furvey Of Phyfick's growth and Poetry's decay. That fhew a generous Muse impair'd by me, As much as th' Author's Skill's out-done by thee, This Indian Conqu❜ror's fatal March he fung, To the fame Lyre his own Apollo ftrung; Whose Notes yet fail'd the Monster to affwage, Revenging here, invading Spaniards Rage. Dear was the Conqueft of a new found World, Whofe Plague e'er since through all the Old is hurl'd
Had Fracaftorius, who in Numbers told
(Numbers more rich than those new Lands of Gold}
This great Deftroyer's Progress, seen this Age
And thy Success against the Tyrant's Rage,
Bembus had then been no immortal Name,
Thou and thy Art had challeng'd all his Flame!
Thou driv'ft th' Ufurper to his last Retreats,
Repairing as thou go'ft the ruin'd Seats:
Thus while the Foe is by thy Art remov'd,
The Holds are ftrengthen'd and the Soil improv'd,
Thy happy Conqueft do's at once expell - -
Th' Invader's force, and inbred Factions quell.
Thy Patients and Augufta's Fate's the fame,
To rife more fair and lafting for the Flame :
While meaner Artists this bold Task effay,
I'th' little World of Man they lose their way.
Thou know'ft the fecret Paffes to each Part,
And, skill'd in Nature, can'st not fail in “Art,
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