No Wind to fan the fcorching Air was found,
No nightly Dew refresht the thirsty Ground:
This Drought our Syphilus beheld with pain,
Nor could the fuff'rings of his Flock sustain,
But to the Noon-day Sun with up-caft Eyes,
In rage threw these reproaching Blafphemies:
Is it for this, O Sol, that thou art styl'd
Our God and Parent? How we are beguil'd!
Dull Bigots to pay Homage to thy Name?
And with rich Spices feed thy Altar's flame:
Why do we yearly Rites for thee prepare,
Who tak'ft of our Affairs fo little Care?
At least thou might'ft between the Rabble Kine
Diftinguish, and these royal Herds of Mine.
Thefe to the great Alcithous belong,
Nor ought to perish with the Vulgar throng.
Or fhall L rather think your Deity
With envious Eyes our thriving Stock did fee?
I grant you had fufficient Cause indeed,
A thousand Heifers of the fnowy Breed,
A thousand Ewes of mine these Downs did feed;
Whilft one Etherial Bull was all your Stock,
One Ram, and to preserve this mighty Flock,
You must forfooth your Syrian Dog maintain:
Why do I worship then a Pow'r fo vain?
Henceforth I to Alcithous will bring
My Offrings, and Adore my greater King,
Who do's fuch fpacious Tracts of Land poffefs,
And whose vaft Pow'r the conquer'd Seas confess.
Him I'll invoke my Suff'rings to redress.
He'll freight command the cooling Winds to
blow,
Refreshing Show'rs on Trees and Herbs beftow,
Nor fuffer Thirft, both Flock and Swain to kill.
He faid, and forthwith on a neighbouring Hill
Erects an Altar to his Monarch's Name,
The Swains from far bring Incense to the Flame;
At length to greater Victims they proceed, 'Till Swine and Heifers too by hundreds Bleed, On whose half roafted Flesh the impious Wretches feed.
All quarters foon were fill'd with the Report,
That ceas'd not till it reacht the Monarch's Court;
Th' afpiring Prince with Godlike Rites o'erjoy'd,
Commands all Altars elfe to be destroy'd,
Proclaims himself in Earth's low Sphere to be
The only and fufficient Deity;
That Heav'nly Pow'rs liv'd too remote and high,
And had enough to do to Rule the Sky.
Th' all-feeing Sun no longer could fuftain
Thefe Practices, but with enrag'd Difdain
Darts forth fuch peftilent malignant Beams,
As fhed Infection on Air, Earth and Streams;
From whence this Malady its birth receiv'd,
And first th' offending Syphilus was griev'd,
Who rais'd forbidden Altars on the Hill,
And Victims Blood with impious Hands did fpill
He first wore Buboes dreadful to the Sight,
First felt ftrange Pains, and fleepless paft the Night;
From him the Malady receiv'd its Name,
The Neighbouring Shepherds catcht the spreading.
At laft in City and in Court 'twas known, [Flame:
And feiz'd th' ambitious Monarch on his Throne;
In this diftrefs the wretched Tribes repair
To Ammerice the Gods Interpreter,
Chief Prieftefs of the confecrated Wood,
In whofe Retreats the awful Tripod food,
From whence the Gods refponfal she expreft;
The Crowd enquire what Caufe produc'd this Peft,
What God enrag'd? and how to be appeas'd,
And laft what Cure remain'd for the Difeas'd?
To whom the Nymph reply'd-----The Sun incens'd,
With just revenge thefe Torments has commenc'd.
What Man can with immortal Pow'rs compare à
Fly, Wretches, fly, his Altars foon repair,
Load them with Incense, him with Pray'rs invade, His Anger will not eafily be laid;
Your Doom is paft, black Styx has heard him fwear,
This Plague should never be extinguifht here.
Since then your Soil must ne'er be wholly free,
Beg Heav'n at least to yield some Remedy:
A Milk-white Cow on Juno's Altar lay,
To Mother Earth a jet-black Heifer flay;
One from above the happy Seeds fhall fhed,
The other rear the Grove and make it spread,
That only for your Grief a Cure shall yield.
She faid: the Croud return'd to th'open'd Field,
Rais'd Altars to the Sun without delay,
To Mother Earth and Juno Victims flay.
'Twill feem moft ftrange what now I fhall declare, But by our Gods and Ancestors I swear,
These Groves that fpread fo wide and look so green
Within this Ifle, till then, were never seen,
But now before their Eyes the Plants were found
To fpring, and in an inftant Shade the Ground,
The Prieft forthwith bids Sacrifice be done,
And Juftice paid to the offended Sun;
Some deftin'd Head t'attone the Crimes of all,
On Syphilus the dreadful Lot did fall,
Who now was plac'd before the Altar bound,
His Head with facrificial Garlands crown'd,
His Throat laid open to the lifted Knife,
But interceding Juno fpar'd his Life,
Commands them in his fead a Heifer flay,
For Phœbus Rage was now remov'd away,
This made our grateful Ancestors enjoin,
When first these annual Rites they did affign,
That to the Altar bound a Swine each time
Should ftand, to witness Syphilus his Crime.
All this infected Throng whom you behold,
Smart for their Ancestors Offence of old:
To heal their Plague this Sacrifice is done,
And reconcile them to th' offended Sun.
The Rites perform'd, the hallow'd Boughs they seize, The speedy certain Cure for their Disease.
With fuch difcourfe the Chiefs their Cares deceive, Whofe Tribes of different Worlds united live, Till now the Ships fent back to Europe's Shore, Return and bring prodigious Tidings o'er; That this Disease did now through Europe rage, Nor any Med'cine found that cou'd affwage, That in their Ships no flender Number mourn'd, With Boils without and inward Ulcers burn'd. Then call'd to mind the Bird's prophetick Sound, That in those Groves Relief was to be found. Then each with folemn Vows the Sun entreats, And gentle Nymphs the Guardians of those Seats. With lufty Strokes the Grove they next invade, Whose weighty Boughs are on their Shoulders laid, Which with the Natives Methods they prepare, And with the healing Draughts their Health repair. But not forgetful of their Country's Good, They fraight their largest Ships with this rich Wood, To try if in our Climate it would be
Of equal ufe, for the fame Malady:
The Year's mild Seafon feconds their defire,
And western Winds, their willing Sails inspire.
Iberian Coafts you firft were happy made
With this rich Plant, and wonder'd at its Aid;
Known now to France and Neighbouring Germany,
Cold Scythian Coafts and temp❜rate Italy,
To Europe's Bounds, all bless the vital Tree.
Hail Heav'n-born Plant whofe Rival ne'er was seen,
Whose Virtues like thy Leaves are ever green;
Hope of Mankind and Comfort of their Eyes,
Of new difcover'd Worlds the richeft Prize.
Too happy, would Indulgent Gods allow
Thy Groves in Europe's nobler Clime to grow:
Yet if my Strains have any force, thy Name
Shall flourish here, and Europe fing thy Fame,
If not remoter Lands with Winter bound,
Eternal Snow, nor Libya's fcorching Ground;
Yet Latium and Benacus cool Retreats
Shall thee refound, with Athefis fair Seats.
Too bleft, if Bembus live thy Growth to fee,
And on the Banks of Tyber gather thee,
If he thy matchless Virtues once rehearse.
And crown thy Praises with eternal Verse.
Allants, a bafhful Poet bids me fay
G come Maidenhead to Day,
Be not too fierce, for he's but green of Age;
And ne'er, 'till now, debauch'd upon the Stage,
He wants the fuff'ring part of Resolution;
And comes with Blushes to his Execution.
E'er you deflow'r his Muse, he hopes the Pit
Will make fome Settlement upon his Wit.
Promise him well, before the Play begin;
For he wou'd fain be cozen'd into Sin.
'Tis not but that he knows you mean to fail;
But, if you leave him after being frail,
He'll have, at least, a fair Pretence to rail;
To call you base, and fwear you us'd him ill,
And put you in the new Deserters Bill:
Lord, what a Troop of perjur'd Men we fee;
Enow to fill another Mercury!
But this the Ladies may with Patience brook:
Theirs are not the firft Colours you forfook!
He wou'd be loath the Beauties to offend;
But, if he fhou'd, he's not too old to mend.
He's a young Plant, in his first Year of bearing;
But his Friend fwears, he will be worth the rearing.
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