n that fair tree, which bears his name, Bloffoms and fruit at once are found: him we all admire the same,

His flowery youth with wisdom crown'd!
mpire and freedom reconcil'd

In Holland are, by great Naffaw:
ike those he fprung from, juft and mild,
To willing people he gives law.
hrice-happy pair! so near ally'd,
In royal blood, and virtue too!
ow Love has you together ty'd
May none this triple knot undo!

he church fhall be the happy place

Where streams which from the fame fource run, hough divers lands awhile they grace, Unite again, and are made one.

thoufand thanks the nation owes To him that does protect us all : or, while he thus his niece beftows, About our ifle he builds a wall:

wall! like that which Athens had, By th' oracle's advice, of wood:

lad theirs been fuch as Charles has made, That mighty state till now had stood.

What better method could you take?
When you by beauty's charms must move,
And must at once a progrefs make

I' th' ftratagems of war and love.

He that a Princefs' heart would gain,
Muft learn fubmiffively to yield;
The stubborn ne'er their ends obtain;
The vanquifh'd masters are o' th' field.
Go on, brave Prince, with like fuccefs,
Still to increase your hop'd renown;
Till to your conduct and address,

Not to your birth, you owe a crown.

Proud Alva with the power of Spain

Could not the noble Dutch enflave; And wifer Parma ftrove in vain,

For to reduce a race fo brave.

They now those very armies pay

By which they were forc'd to yield to you ; Their ancient birthright they betray,

By their own votes you them fubdue.

Who can then liberty maintain

When by such arts it is withstood? Freedom to Princes is a chain,

To all that spring from Royal Blood.

O THE PRINCE OF ORANGE,

1677.

OF ENGLISH VERSE.

Skill'd in the arts of war and peace;

our birth does call you to command,
Your nature does incline to peace.
When Holland, by her foes oppreft,
No longer could sustain their weight;
o a native Prince they thought it beft
To recommend their dying state.
Your very name did France expel;
Thofe conquer'd towns which lately coft
o little blood, unto you fell

With the fame eafe they once were loft.
Twas not your force did them defeat;
They neither felt your sword nor fire;
But feemed willing to retreat,

And to your greatness did conspire.
Hor have you fince ungrateful been,
When at Seneff you did expofe,
And at Mount Caffal, your own men,
Whereby you might fecure your foes.
Let Maeftricht fiege enlarge your name,
And your retreat at Charleroy ;
Warriors by flying may gain fame,
And Parthian-like their foes destroy.
Thus Fabius gain'd repute of old,
When Roman glory gasping lay;
a council flow, in action cold,
His country fav'd, running away.

Their works fhall with the world remain : Both bound together, live or die,

The verses and the prophecy.

But who can hope his line fhould long
Laft, in a daily-changing tongue?
While they are new, envy prevails;
And as that dies, our language fails.
When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art:
Time, if we ufe ill-chofen stone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.
Poets that lasting marble seek,
Muft carve in Latin or in Greek :
We write in fand; our language grows,
And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.

Chaucer his fenfe can only boaft;
The glory of his numbers loft!
Years have defac'd his matchless strain;
And yet he did not fing in vain.

The beauties which adorn'd that age,
The fhining fubjects of his rage,
Hoping they fhould immortal prove,
Rewarded with fuccefs his love.

This was the generous poet's fcope;
And all an English pen can hope;
To make the Fair approve his flame,
That can fo far extend their fame.

On foes furprized, and by no night conceal'd,
He might have rufh'd; but noble pity held
His hand a while, and to their choice gave fpace,
Which they would prove, his valour or his grace.
This not well heard, his cannon louder fpoke,
And then, like lightning, through that cloud he
broke.

His fame, his conduct, and that martial look,
The guilty Scots with fuch a terror ftrook;
That to his courage they refign the field,
Who to his bounty had refus'd to yield,
Glad that fo little loyal blood it cost,

He grieves fo many Britons fhould be loft:
Taking more pains, when he beheld them yield,
To fave the flyers, than to win the field:
And at the Court his intereft does employ

And, feeling first what they indite, New credit give to ancient light. Amongst thefe few, our author brings His well-known pedigree from Kings. This book, the image of his mind, Will make his name not hard to find: I wish the throng of Great and Good Made it lefs cafily understood!

And now, thefe rafh bold men their error find, Not trufting one, beyond his promise kind : One! whofe great mind, fo bountiful and brave, Had learn'd the art to conquer and to fave.

In vulgar breafts no royal virtues dwell; Such deeds as thefe his high extraction tell: And give a fecret joy to * him that reigns, To fee his blood triumph in Monmouth's veins : To fee a leader, whom he got and chofe, Firm to his friends, and fatal to his foes.

But feeing envy, like the fun, does beat With fcorching rays, on all that 's high and great: This, ill-requited Monmouth! is the bough The Mufes fend, to fhade thy conquering brow. ampoons, like fquibs, may make a prefent blaze; 3ut time and thunder pay respect to bays. Achilles' arms dazzle our prefent view; Kept by the Mufe as radiant, and as new, As from the forge of Vulcan firft they came; Thousands of years are past, and they the fame. uch care fhe takes to pay defert with fame! han which, no Monarch, for his crown's defence, nows how to give a nobler recompense.

BOLD

OLD is the man that dares engage
For piety, in fuch an age!

'ho can prefume to find a guard

om fcorn, when Heaven's fo little spar'd? ivines are pardon'd; they defend Itars on which their lives depend:

it the prophane impatient are,

hen nobler pens make this their care:
or why fhould these let in a beam

f divine light to trouble them;
nd call in doubt their pleafing thought,
hat none believes what we are taught?
igh birth and fortune warrant give
hat fuch men write what they believe:
*King Charles II.

Than all their Bards could ever do before
And, at your own charge, monuments as hard
As brafs or marble, to your fame have rear'd.
For, as all warlike nations take delight
To hear how their brave ancestors could fight;
You have advanc'd to wonder their renown,
And no lefs virtuously improv'd your own:
That 'twill be doubtful, whether you do write,
Or they have acted, at a nobler height.
You, of your ancient Princes, have retriev'd
More than the ages knew in which they liv'd:
Explain'd their customs and their rights anew,
Better than all their Druids ever knew:
Unriddled thofe dark oracles, as well

As thofe that made them, could themselves foretell.
For, as the Britons long have hop'd in vain,
Arthur would come to govern them again :
You have fulfill'd that prophecy alone,
And in your Poem plac'd him on his throne.
Such magic power has your prodigious pen,
To raife the dead, and give new life to men:
Make rival Princes meet in arms and love,
Whom diftant ages did fo far remove.
For, as eternity has neither past
Nor future, authors fay, nor first nor last;
But is all inftant; your eternal Muse
All ages can to any one reduce,

Then why should you, whofe miracles of art
Can life at pleasure to the dead impart,
Trouble in vain your better-bufied head,
T'obferve what times they liv'd in, or were
dead?

For, fince you have such arbitrary power,
It were defect in judgment to go lower;
Or ftoop to things fo pitifully lewd,
As ufe to take the vulgar latitude.

For no man's fit to read what you have writ,
That holds not fome proportion with your wit.
As light can no way but by light appear,
He must bring fenfe that understands it here.

Thou! from the ancient learned Latin storet,
Giv'ft us one author, and we hope for more,
May they enjoy thy thoughts!-Let not the Stage.
The idleft moment of thy hours engage.
Each year that place fome wondrous monster
breeds,

And the Wit's garden is o'er-run with weeds,
There Farce is Comedy; bombaft call'd strong;
Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
'Tis hard to fay they steal them now-a-days;
For fure the ancients never wrote fuch plays.
Thefe fcribbling infects have what they deserve,
Not plenty, nor the glory for to starve.
That Spenfer knew, that Taffo felt before;
And death found furly Ben exceeding poor.
Heaven turn the omen from their image here!
May he with joy the well-plac'd laurel wear!
Great Virgil's happier fortune may he find,
And be our Cæfar, like Auguftus, kind!

But let not this disturb thy tuneful head;
Thou writ'ft for thy delight, and not for bread;
Thou art not curft to write thy verse with care;
But art above what other poets fear.
What may we hot expect from fuch a hand,
That has, with books, himself at free command?
Thou know'ft in youth, what age has fought in
vain;

And bring ft forth fons without a mother's pain. So eafy is thy fenfe, thy verfe fo sweet, 'Thy words fo proper, and thy phrase so fit; We read, and read again, and still admire Whence came this youth, and whence this wondrous fire!

Pardon this rapture, Sir! But who can be Cold and unmov'd, yet have his thoughts on thee? Thy goodness may my feveral faults forgive, And by your help these wretched lines may live. But if, when view'd by your feverer fight, They feem unworthy to behold the light; Let them with fpeed in deferv'd flames be thrown!

They'll fend no fighs, nor murmur out a groan; But, dying filently, your juftice own.

THE TRIPLE COMBAT.

Legions of Cupids to the battle come,
For Little Britain these, and those for Rome
Drefs'd to advantage, this illuftrious pair
Arriv'd, for combat in the lift appear.
What may the Fates design! for never yet
From diftant regions two fuch beauties met.
Venus had been an equal friend to both,
And Victory to declare herself seems loth:
Over the camp with doubtful wings fhe flies;
Till Chloris fhining in the field the spies.
The lovely Chloris well-attended came,
A thousand Graces waited on the dame:
Her matchless form made all the English glad,
And foreign beauties lefs affurance had.
Yet, like the three on Ida's top, they all
Pretend alike, contefting for the ball.
Which to determine, Love himself dech'd,
Left the neglected fhould become less kind.
Such killing looks! fo thick the arrows fly!
That 'tis unfafe to be a ftander-by.
Poets, approaching to defcribe the fight,
Are by their wounds inftructed how to write.
They with lefs hazard might look on, and draw
The ruder combats in Alfatia :
And, with that foil of violence and rage,
Set off the fplendor of our golden age:
Where Love gives law, Beauty the fceptre fways;
And, uncompell'd, the happy world obeys.

OF AN ELEGY MADE BY MRS. WHARTON, (1 THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.

Not ftrowing tears, but lafting verfe; Which so preserve the Hero's name, They make him live again in fame.

'HUS mourn the Mufes! on the hearfe

Chloris, in lines fo like his own, Gives him fo juft and high renown; That the th' afflicted world relieves, And fhews that still in her he lives. Her wit as graceful, great, and good: Ally'd in genius, as in blood.

His lofs fupply'd, now all our fears Are, that the Nymph fhould melt in tears. Then, faireft Chloris! comfort take,

run,

Bright as her fellow-traveller, the fun;
Hither at length the Roman eagle flies,
As the last triumph of her conquering eyes.
As heir to Julius, fhe may pretend
A fecond time to make this ifland bend.

But Portsmouth, fpringing from the ancient race
Of Britons, which the Saxon here did chase;
As they great Cæfar did oppofe, makes head,
And does against this new invader lead,
That goodly Nymph, the taller of the two,
Carelefs and fearlefs to the field does go.
Becoming blushes on the other wait,
And her young look excufes want of height.
Beauty gives courage; for, fhe knows, the day
31uft not be won the Amazonian way.

Left his fair foul, that lives in you, Should from the world for ever go.