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Write for immortal fame; nor ever chuse
Gold for the object of a generous muse:
I know a noble wit may, without crime,
Receive a lawful tribute for his time:
Yet I abhor those writers, who despise
Their honour; and alone their profits prize;
Who their Apollo basely will degrade,
And of a noble science make a trade.
Before kind reason did her light display,
And 2 wernment taught mortals to obey,
Men, like wild beasts, did nature's laws pursue,
They fed on herbs, and drink from rivers drew;
Their brutal force, on lust and rapine bent,
Committed murder without punishment:
Reafon at lalt by her all-conquering arts,
Reduc'd these favages, and tun'd their hearts ;
Mankind from bogs, and woods, and caverns calls,
And towns and cities fortifies with walls:
Thus fear of justice made proud rapine cease,
And shelter'd innocence by laws and peace.

These benefits from poets we receiv’d,
From whence are rais'd those fictions since believ'd,
That Orpheus, by his soft harmonious strains,
Tam’d the fierce tigers of the Thracian plains;
Amphion's no:es, by their melodious powers,
Drew rocks and woods, and rais’d the Theban tow'rs:
These miracles from numbers did arise:
Since which, in verse heaven taught his mysteries,
And by a priest, possess'd with rage divine,
Apollo spoke from his prophetick shrine,
Soon after Homer the old heroes prais’d,
And noble minds by great examples rais'd ;
Then Hesiod did his Grecian swains incline
To till the fields, and prune the boun teous vine,
Thus useful rules were by the poets aid,
In easy numbers to rude men convey'd,

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And pleasingly their precepts did impart;
First charm’d the ear, and then engag’d the heart:
The muses thus their reputation rais'd,
And with just gratitude in Greece were prais'd.
With pleasure mortals did their wonders fee,
And facrific'd to their divinity;
But want, at laft, base flattery entertain'd,
And old Parnassus with this vice was ftain'd:
Desire of gain dazzling the poets eyes,
Their works were fill'd with fulsome flatteries.
Thus needy wits a vile revenue made,
And verse became a mercenary trade.
Debase not with fo mean a vice thy art;
If gold must be the idol of thy heart,
Fly, fly th’unfruitful Heliconian strand,
Those streams are not inrich’d with golden sand :
Great wits, as well as warriors, only gain
Laurels and honours for their toil and pain:
But what? an author cannot live on fame,
Or pay a reckoning with a lofty name:
A poet to whom fortune is unkind,
Who when he goes to bed has hardly din'd;
Takes little pleasure in Parnassus' dreams,
Or relishes the Heliconian streams.
Horace had ease and plenty when he writ,
And free from cares for money or for meat,
Did not expect his dinner from his wit.
'Tis true; but verse is cherish'd by the great,
And now none famith who deserve to eat:
What can we fear, when virtue, arts, and sense,
Receive the stars propitious influence;
When a sharp-fighted prince, by early grants
your merits, and

prevents your wants :
Sing then his glory, celebrate his fame;
Your nobleft theme is his immortal naine.
Let mighty Spenser raise his reverend head,
Cowley and Denham start up from the dead;



Waller his age renew, and offerings bring,
Our monarch's praise let bright-ey'd virgins fing;
Let Dryden with new rules our stage refine,
And his great models form by this design:
But where's a second Virgil, to rehearse
Our hero's glories in his epick verser
What Orpheus fing his triumphs o'er the main,
And make the hills and forests move again;
Shew his bold fleet on the Batavian fhore,
And Holland trembling as his cannons roar;
Paint Europe's balance in his steady hand,
Whilft the two worlds in expectation stand
Of peace or war, that wait on his command?
But as I speak new glories strike my eyes,
Glories, which heaven itself does give, and prize,
Blessings of peace; that with their milder rays
Adorn his reign, and bring Saturnian days :
Now let rebellion, discord, vice, and rage,
That have in patriots forms debauch'd our age,
Vanish with all the minifters of hell:
His rays their poisonous vapours shall dispel :
'Tis he alone our safety did create,
His own firm soul secur'd the nation's fate,
Oppos’d to all the Boutefeus 3 of the state.
Authors for him your great endeavours raise;
The loftiest numbers will but reach his praise.
For me, whose verse in satire has been bred,
And never durft heroick measures tread;
Yet you shall see me, in that famous field,
With eyes and voice, my best assistance yield:
your lessons, that


infant muse
Learnt, when the Horace for her guide did chuse:
Second your zeal with wishes, heart, and eyes,
And afar off hold up the glorious prize.


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But pardon too, if zealous for the right,
A ftrict observer of each noble flight,
From the fine gold I separate the allay,
And show how hafty writers sometimes stray:
Apter to blame, than knowing how to mend;
A tharp, but yet a neceffary friend,





the happy Memory of King CHARLES II. Fortunati ambo! si quid mea carmina possunt, Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet ævo. Virg.


HUS long my grief has kept me dumb:

Sure there's a lethargy in mighty woe,

Tears ftand congeal'd, and cannot flow;
And the fad foul retires into her in most room:
Tears, for a stroke foreseen, afford relief;

But, unprovided for a sudden blow,
Like Niobe we marble grow;

And petrify with grief,


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