Homage to pay, or humble peace to gain, Shrinking from what they dare not now oppose; 550 -555 560 Rang'don green banks, which they themselves did raite, 570 Draw every thing like this that thought can frame, 575 I So to a throne by Providence he rofe, And all who e'er were his, were Providence's focs. THE ENCHANTMENT. IDI I. DID but look and love a-while, Then to refift I had no will And now I have no power. II. To figh, and wish, is all my ease; III. O! would your pity give my heart One corner of your breast, THE THE POET'S COMPLAINT OF HIS MUSE: O R, A SATIRE AGAINST LIBELS. "Si quid habent veri vatum præfagia, vivam." To the Right Honourable THOMAS Earl of OSSORY, Baron of Moor Park, Knight of the moft Noble Order of the Garter, &c. MY LORD, THOUGH 'HOUGH never any man had more need of excufe for a prefumption of this nature than I have now; yet, when I have laid out every way to find one, your lordship's goodness must be my best refuge and therefore I humbly caft this at your feet for protection, and myfelf for pardon. My Lord, I have great need of protection; for to the best of my heart I have here published in fome measure the truth, and I would have it thought honestly too (a practice never more out of countenance than now): yet truth and honour are things which your lord-' ship muft needs be kind to, because they are relations to your nature, and never left you. 'Twould 'Twould be a fecond presumption in me to pretend in this a panegyric on your lordship; for it would require more art to do your virtue juftice, than to flatter any other man. If I have ventured at a hint of the prefent fufferings of that great prince mentioned in the latter end of this paper, with favour from your lordship I hope to add a fecond part, and do all thofe great and good men justice, that have in his calamities ftuck faft to fo gallant a friend and fo good a master. To write and finish which great fubject faithfully, and to be honoured with your lordship's patronage in what I may do, and your approbation, or at least pardon, in what I have done, will be the greateft pride of, My Lord, Your moft humble admirer and fervant, THOMAS OTWAY. T O D E. a high hill where never yet ftood tree, Where only heath, coarse fern, and furzes grow, The flocks in tatter'd fleeces hardly gaze, Led by uncouth thoughts and care, Which did too much his penfive mind amaze, A wandering bard, whofe Mufe was crazy grown, Cloy'd with the naufeous follies of the buzzing town, Came, look'd about him, figh'd, and laid him down ; 'Twas 'Twas far from any path, but where the earth When by the word it firft was made, Let grafs and herbs and every green thing grow, With fruitful trees after their kind, and it was fo. The whistling winds blew fiercely round his head, Cold was his lodging, hard his bed; Aloft his eyes on the wide heavens he caft, Where we are told Peace only 's found at last : And as he did its hopeless distance fee, Sigh'd deep, and cry'd, How far is Peace from me! II. Nor ended there his moan: The diftance of his future joy Had been enough to give him pain alone; Defpair of eafe to come, with weight of present woe? The trickling tears had ftream'd so fast a pace, Swoln was his breast with fighs, his well- Whilft the poor trunk (unable to fustain What the fad caufe could be Had prefs'd his ftate fo low, and rais'd his plaints fo high. On |