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Work is now generally known and esteem'd; and I having the Honour to hear Your Lordlhip fay, that a smaller Edition of it would be grateful to the World, immediately resolv’d upon Printing it in this Volume, of which I most humbly beg Your Acceptance, from,


Tour Lordship's

Ever Obliged Servant.


Paradisum Amiffam

Suinmi Poeta


Vi legis Amisam Paradisum, grandia magni

Carmina Miltoni, quid nisi cunéta legis Res cunclas, da cunctarum primordia rerum,

Et fata, & fines continet iste liber. Intima panduntur magni penetralia mundi,

Scribitur do toto quicquid in Orbe latet. Terraque, tra&tusque maris, cælumque profundum

Sulphureumque Erebi, flammivonumque fpecus.
Quaque calunt terras, Pontumque & Tartara caca,

Quaque colunt summi lucida regna Poli.
Et quodcunque ullis conclufum eft finibus ufquam,

Et fine fine Chaos, & fine fine Deus :
Et fine fine magis, fi quid magis eft fine fine,

In Christo erga homines conciliatus amor.
Hec qui speraret quis crederet effe futurum ?

Et tamen hec hodie terra Britanna legit.
O quantos in bella Duces! que protulit arma!

Que camit, de quanta pralia dira tuba.

Cæleftes acies! atque in certamine Cæiuro!

Et quæ Cæleftes pisgna deceret agros! Quantus in atheriis toilit se Lucifer armis!

Atque ipfo graditur vix Michaele minor! Quantis, do quam fune? is concurritur iris

Dum ferus hic ftellas protegit, ille rapit! Dum vulsos Montes ceu Tela reciproca torquent,

Et non mortali desuper igne pluunt :
Stat dubius cui se parti concedat Olympus,

Et metuit pugna non superesse sua.
At fimul in cælis Messie insignia fulgent,

Et currus animes, armaque digna Doa,
Horrendumque rota strident, & seeva rotarum

Erumpunt torvis fulgura Inminibus,
Et flamma vibrant, bu vera tonitrua rauca

Admistis flammis in fonuere Polo:
Excidit attonitis mens omnis, dan imperus omnis

Et cassis dextris irrita Tela cadunt.
Ad pænas fugiunt, & ceu foret Orcus afylum

Infernis certant condere se tenebris.
Cedite Romani Scriptores, cedite Graii

Es quos fama recens vel celebravit anus. Hec quicunque leget tantum cecine fe putabit

Maonidem ranas, Virgilium fulices.

S. B. M.D.


'Hen I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold,

In Nender Book his vast Design unfold, Messiah Crown’d, God's Reconcild Decree, Rebelling Angels, the Forbidden Tree, Heav'n, Hell, Earth, Chaos, All; the Argument Held me a while misdoubting his Intent, That he would ruine (for I saw him trong) The sacred Truths to Fable and old song. (So Sampson groap'd the Temples Posts in spight) The World o’erwhelming to revenge his light.

Yet as I read, soon growing less severe,
I lik’d his Project, the success did fear;
Through that wide Field how he his way should find,
O'er which lame Faith leads Understanding blind;
Left he perplex'd the things he would explain,
And what was calie he should render vain.

Or if a Work so infinite he spannid,
Jealous I was that some less skilful hand
(Such as disquiet always what is well,
And by ill imitating would excell)
Might hence presume the whole Creation's day
To change in Scenes, and thow it in a Play.

Pardon me, mighty Poet, nor despise
My causeless, yet not impious, surmise.
But I am now convinc'd, and none will dare
Within thy Labours to pretend a hare.
Tisou haît not mi s’d one thought that could be fita
And all that was improper dost omit:

So that no room is here for Writers left,
But to detect their Ignorance or Theft.

That Majesty which through thy Work duth Reign
Draws the Devout, deterring the Profane.
And things divine thou treat'it of in such state
As them preserves, and thee, inviolate,
At once delight and horror on us feise,
Thou ling’ít with so much gravity and ease;
And above humane flight dost foar alofc
With Plume so strong, so equal, and so foft.
The Bird nam’d from that Paradise you fing
So never flags, but always keeps on Wing.

Where couldst thou words of such a compass find? Whence furnish such a vast expence of mind? Just Heav’n thee like Tiresias to requite Rewards with Prophelie thy loss of light.

Well might'st thou scorn thy Readers to allure With tinkling Rhime, of thy own senfe fecure; While the Town-Bu es writes allthe while and spells And like a Pack-horle rires without his Bells : Their Fancies like our Busy-poinis appear, The Coets tag them, we för fashion wear. 1 too transported by the Mode offend, And while I meant to Praise thee must Commend. Thy Verse created like thy Theme sublime, In Number, Weight and Measure, needs not Rhime.

Andrew Marvell.

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