In short, we'll grow as moral as we can, EPIGRAM, On the Dutchefs of PORTSMOUTH'S Picture. URE we do live by Cleopatra's age, SURE Since Sunderland does govern now the stage: She of Septimius had nothing made, Pompey alone had been by her betray'd. Were the a poet, fhe would furely boast, EPIT A PH. Intended for Mr. DRYDEN'S Wife. HERE lies my wife: here let her lie! Now fhe's at reft, and fo am I. DESCRIPTION of old JACOB TONSON. WITH ITH leering look, bull-fac'd, and freckled fair, With two left-legs, with Judas-colour'd hair, And frowzy pores that taint the ambient air. On Tonfon's refufing to give Dryden the price he afked for his Virgil, the Poet fent him the above; and added, "Tell the dog, that he who wrote them, can "write more." The money was paid. VERSES TO MR. DRYDEN. To the unknown AUTHOR of ABSALOM and ACHITOPHEL. TAKE it as earnest of a faith renew'd, Your theme is vaft, your verfe divinely good: Where, though the Nine their beautecus ftrokes repeat, And the turn'd lines on golden anvils beat, It looks as if they ftrook them at a heat. So all ferenely great, so just refin'd, Like angels love to human feed inclin'd, It starts a giant, and exalts the kind. 'Tis fpirit feen, whofe fiery atoms roll, So brightly fierce, each fyllable 's a foul. 'Tis miniature of man, but he's all heart; 'Tis what the world would be, but wants the art; To whom ev'n the fanaticks altars raife, Bow in their own despite, and grin your praise; Fil'd off the ruft, and the right party chofe. Turn not your feet too inward, nor too fplay. David, that rebel Ifrael's envy mov'd; VOL. II. U The The beauties of your Abfalom excel : But more the charms of charming Annabel : Of Annabel, than May's first morn more bright, Chearful as fummer's noon, and chafte as winter's night. Of Annabel, the Mufes dearest theme; Of Annabel, the angel of my dream. Thus let a broken eloquence attend, And to your mafter-piece thefe fhadows fend. NAT. LE E. Mr DUKE's verfes to Mr Dryden may be feen in the volume of his Poems. To the concealed A U T H OR of ABSALOM and ACHITOPHEL. HAIL, heaven-born Mufe: hail, every facred page:] The glory of our ifle and of our age. Th' infpiring fun to Albion draws more nigh, Thus on our stubborn language he prevails, The dialect, as well as fenfe, invents, And, with his poem, a new fpeech presents. Hail then, thou matchlefs Bard, thou great unknown, } The caufe, whose growth to crush, our prelates wrote N. TATE. Upon the AUTHOR of the MEDAL. NCE more our awful poet arms, t'engage ONO The threatening hydra-faction of the age; Once more prepares his dreadful pen to wield, And every Mufe attends him to the field. By art and nature for this task design'd, Bleft Muse, whose wit with such a cause was crown'd, And black fedition in each quarter galls; I N. TATE. Το |