. DR.

TO THE REVEREND

WILKINS,

WARDEN OF WADHAM COLLEGE IN OXFORD.

SIR,

SEEING you are pleafed to think fit that these

papers fhould come into the public, which were at firft defigned to live only in a desk, or some private friend's hands; I humbly take the boldness to commit them to the fecurity which your name and protection will give them with the most knowing part of the world. There are two things especially in which they stand in need of your defence: one is, that they fall fo infinitely below the full and lofty genius of that excellent poet, who made this way of writing free of our nation: the other, that they are so little proportioned and equal to the renown of that prince, on whom they were written. Such great actions and lives deferving rather to be the fubjects of the noblest pens and divine fancies, than of such small beginners and weak essayers in poetry as myself. Against these dangerous prejudices, there remains no other fhield, than the univerfal esteem and authority which your judgment and approbation carries with it. The right you have to them, Sir, is not only on the account of the relation you had to this great perfon, nor of the general favour which all arts receive from you; but more particu

L 2

larly

larly by reafon of that obligation and zeal with which I am bound to dedicate myself to your fervice: for having been a long time the object of your care and indulgence towards the advantage of my ftudies and fortune, having been moulded as it were by your own hands, and formed under your government, not to entitle you to any thing which my meanness produces, would not only be injustice, but facrilege: fo that if there be any thing here tolerably faid, which deferves pardon, it is yours, Sir, as well as he, who is,

Your most devoted,

and obliged fervant,

THO. SPRAT.

'TIS

I.

IS true, great name, thou art fecure
From the forgetfulness and rage

Of death, or envy, or devouring age;

Thou canft the force and teeth of time endure :*

Thy fame, like men, the elder it doth grow,
Will of itself turn whiter, too,

Without what needlefs art can do ;

Will live beyond thy breath, beyond thy hearfe,
Though it were never heard or fung in verse.
Without our help, thy memory is fafe;
They only want an epitaph,

That do remain alone

Alive in an inscription,

Remember'd only on the brafs, or marble-stone,

'Tis all in vain what we can do:

All our rofes and perfumes

Will but officious folly show,

And pious nothings to fuch mighty tombs.

All our incenfe, gums and balm,
Are but unneceffary duties here:

The poets may their spices spare,

Their coftly numbers, and their tuneful feet :
That need not be embalm'd, which of itself is fweet:

II.

We know to praife thee is a dangerous proof
Of our obedience and our love :
For when the fun and fire meet,

The one's extinguifh'd quite;

And

yet

the other never is more bright. So they that write of thee, and join

Their feeble names with thine;

Their weaker fparks with thy illuftrious light,

Will lose themselves in that ambitious thought; And yet no fame to thee from hence be brought. We know, blefs'd fpirit, thy mighty name Wants no addition of another's beam;

It's for our pens too high, and full of theme : The Mufes are made great by thee, not thou by them, Thy fame's eternal lamp will live,

And in thy facred urn furvive,

Without the food of oil, which we can give.

'Tis true; but yet our duty calls our fongs;

Duty commands our tongues:

Though