England no more fhall penfive thoughts employ
On him the 'as loft; but him fhe has, enjoy.
So Ariadne, when her lover fled,

And Bacchus honour'd the deferted bed,
Ceas'd with her tears to raise the fwelling flood,
Forgot her Thefeus, and embrac'd the god.

On the University of CAMBRIDGE's burning the Duke of MONMOUTH's Picture, 1685, who was formerly their Chancellor.-In Anfwer to this Queftion,

"Turba Remi? fequitur fortunam, ut femper, & odit "Damnatos

ES, fickle Cambridge, Perkins found this true

YES

Both from your rabble and your doctors too,
With what applause you once receiv'd his grace,
And begg'd a copy of his godlike face;
But when the fage Vice Chancellor was fure
The original in limbo lay fecure,

As greafy as himself he fends a lictor
To vent his loyal malice on the picture.
The beadle's wife endeavours all the can
To fave the image of the tall young man,
Which the fo oft when pregnant did embrace,
That with ftrong thoughts fhe might improve her race;
But all in vain, fince the wife house conspire
To damn the canvas traitor to the fire,

Left

ON BURNING MONMOUTH'S PICTURE, 249 Left it, like bones of Scanderbeg, incite

Scythe-men next harvest to renew the fight.

Then in comes mayor Eagle, and does gravely alledge, He'll fubfcribe, if he can, for a bundle of Sedge; But the man of Clare-hall that proffer refuses, 'Snigs, he'll be beholden to none but the Muses; And orders ten porters to bring the dull reams On the death of good Charles, and crowning of James; And fwears he will borrow of the Provost more stuff On the marriage of Anne, if that be n't enough. The heads, left he get all the profit t' himself, Too greedy of honour, too lavish of pelf, This motion deny, and vote that Tite Tillet Should gather from each noble Doctor a billet. The kindness was common, and fo they'd return if, The gift was to all, all therefore would burn it: Thus joining their stocks for a bonfire together, As they club for a cheese in the parish of "Chedder; Confusedly crowd on the fophs and the doctors,

The hangman, the townfmen, their wives, and the proctors,

While the troops from each part of the countries in ale
Come to quaff his confufion in bumpers of stale;
But Rofalin, never unkind to a Duke,
Does by her abfence their folly rebuke,

The tender creature could not fee his fate,
With whom the 'ad danc'd a minuet fo late.

The heads, who never could hope for fuch frames,
Out of envy condemn'd fixfcore pounds to the flames,

Then his air was too proud, and his features amiss,
As if being a traitor had alter'd his phiz:

So the rabble of Rome, whose favour ne'er fettles,
Melt down their Sejanus to pots and brass kettles.

An EPISTLE to CHARLES MONTAGUE, Efq; afterwards Earl of HALIFAX.

On his Majesty's Voyage to HOLLAND.

SIR,

SINCE you

oft invite me to renew

Art I've either loft, or never knew,
Pleas'd my paft follies kindly to commend,
And fondly lofe the critick in the friend;
Though my warm youth untimely be decay'd,
From grave to dull infenfibly betray'd,
I'll contradict the humour of the times,
Inclin'd to business, and averse to rhymes,
And, to obey the man I love, in fpite
Of the world's genius and my own, I'll write.
But think not that I vainly do aspire

To rival what I only would admire,

The heat and beauty of your manly thought,
And force like that with which your hero fought;
Like Samfon's riddle is that powerful song,
Sweet as the honey, as the lion strong;

The colours there fo artfully are laid,

They fear no luftre, and they want no shade;
But shall of writing a juft model give,

While Boyne fhall flow, and William's glory live.

Yet fince his every act may well infuse
Some happy rapture in the humbleft Mufe,
Though mine despairs to reach the wondrous height,
She prunes her pinions, eager of the flight;
The King's the theme, and I 've a subject's right.
When William's deeds, and refcued Europe's joy
Do every tongue and every pen employ,
'Tis to think treafon fure, to fhew no zeal,
And not to write, is almoft to rebel.

Let Albion then forgive her meanest fon,
Who would continue what her best begun;
Who, leaving conquefts and the pomp of war,
Would fing the pious King's divided care;
How eagerly he flew, when Europe's fate
Did for the feed of future actions wait;

And how two nations did with transport boaft,
Which was belov'd, and lov'd the victor most:
How joyful Belgia gratefully prepar'd
Trophies and vows for her returning lord;
How the fair ifle with rival paffion ftrove,

How by her forrow the exprefs'd her love,

When he withdrew from what his arm had freed,
And how the blefs'd his way, yet figh'd, and faid:
Is it decreed my hero ne'er fhall reft,

Ne'er be of me, and I of him poffefs'd?
Scarce had I met his virtue with my throne,
By right, by merit, and by arms his own,
But Ireland's freedom, and the war's alarms,
Call'd him from me and his Maria's charms.

O ge

O generous prince, too prodigally kind!
Can the diffufive goodness of your mind
Be in no bounds, but of the world confin'd?
Should finking nations fummon you away,
Maria's love might justify your stay.
Imperfectly the many vows are paid,

Which for your fafety to the Gods were made,
While on the Boyne they labour'd to out-do
Your zeal for Albion by their care for you;
When, too impatient of a glorious case,
You tempt new dangers on the winter feas.
The Belgic ftate has refted long fecure
Within the circle of thy guardian power;
Rear'd by thy care, that noble lion, grown
Mature in strength, can range the woods alone:
When to my arms they did the Prince refign,
I blefs'd the change, and thought him wholly mine;
Conceiv'd long hopes I jointly fhould obey
His ftronger, and Maria's gentle fway;
He fierce as thunder, the as lightning bright;
One my defence, and t'other my delight:
Yet go---where honour calls the hero, go:
Nor let your eyes behold how mine do flow;
Go meet your country's joy, your virtue's due;
Receive their triumphs, and prepare for new;
Enlarge my empire, and let France afford
The next large harvest to thy profperous fword:
Again in Crecy let my arms be rear'd,

And o'er the continent Britannia fear'd:

}