When waking as I caft my eyes around,
Nothing but old loath'd vanities I found;

No grove, no freedom, and, what 's worse to me,
No friend; for I have none compar'd with thee.
Soon then my thoughts with their old tyrant Care
Were feiz'd; which to divert, I fram'd this prayer:
Gods! life's your gift, then season 't with fuch fate,
That what ye meant a bleffing prove no weight.
Let me to the reinoteft part be whirl'd,

Of this your play-thing made in hafte, the world;
But grant me quiet, liberty, and peace,
By day what's needful, and at night soft ease;
The friend I truft in, and the fhe I love,
Then fix me; and if e'er I wish remove,
Make me as great (that's wretched) as ye can,
Set me in power, the woefull'ft ftate of man;
To be by fools mifled, to knaves a prey,
But make life what I ask, or take 't away.

TO M R.

CREECH,

UPON HIS

TRANSLATION OF LUCRETIUS.

SIR,

IR, when your book the first time came abroad,
I must confefs I ftood amaz'd and aw'd;

For, as to fome good-nature I pretend,

I fear'd to read, lest I should not commend.

Lucretius

Lucretius english'd! 'twas a work might shake

The power of English verfe to undertake.
This all men thought; but you are born, we find,
T'out-do the expectations of mankind;
Since you've fo well the noble task perform'd,
Envy's appeas'd, and prejudice difarm'd :
For when the rich original we peruse,
And by it try the metal you produce,
Though there indeed the pureft ore we find,
Yet still in you it fomething feems refin'd :
Thus when the great Lucretius gives a loose,
And lashes to her fpeed his fiery Mufe;
Still with him you maintain an equal pace,
And bear full ftretch upon him all the race;
But when in rugged way we find him rein
His verfe, and not fo fmooth a stroke maintain ;
There the advantage he receives is found,
By you taught temper, and to chufe his ground.
Next, his philofophy you 've fo exprest
In genuine terms, fo plain, yet neatly dreft,
Thofe murderers that now mingle it all day
In schools, may learn from you the easy way
To let us know what they would mean and say:
If Ariftotle's friends will fhew the grace
To wave for once their ftatute in that cafe.

Go on then, Sir, and fince you could afpire,
And reach this height, aim yet at laurels higher :
Secure great injur'd Maro from the wrong

He unredeem'd has labour'd with so long

In Holbourn rhyme, and, left the book should fail,
Expos'd with pictures to promote the fale:

So tapfters fet out signs, for muddy ale.

You're only able to retrieve his doom,

And make him here as fam'd as once at Rome :
For fure, when Julius first this ifle fubdued,
Your ancestors then mixt with Roman blood;
Some near ally'd to that whence Ovid came,
· Virgil and Horace, those three fons of Fame;
Since to their memory it is fo true,

And fhews their poetry fo much in you.
Go on in pity to this wretched ifle,
Which ignorant poetafters do defile
With loufy madrigals for lyric verse;
Instead of comedy with nafty farce.

Would Plautus, Terence e'er, have been fo lewd
T'have dreft Jack-pudding up to catch the crowd?
Or Sophocles five tedious acts have made,

To fhew a whining fool in love betray'd
By fome false friend or flippery chambermaid,
Then, ere he hangs himself, bemoans his fall
In a dull speech, and that fine language call?
No, fince we live in fuch a fulfome age,

}

When nonfenfe loads the prefs, and choaks the ftage;
When blockheads will claim wit in nature's fpight,
And every dunce, that starves, prefumes to write,
Exert yourself, defend the Mufe's caufe,

Proclaim their right, and to maintain their laws
Make the dead ancients fpeak the British tongue;
That fo each chattering daw, who aims at song,
F

In

In his own mother-tongue may humbly read
What engines yet are wanting in his head
To make him equal to the mighty dead,

For of all Nature's works we moft fhould fcorn
The thing who thinks himself a poet born,
Unbred, untaught, he rhymes, yet hardly fpells,
And senselessly, as squirrels jangle bells.

Such things, Sir, here abound; may therefore you
Be ever to your friends, the Muses, true!
May our defects be by your powers fupply'd,
Till, as our envy new, you grow our pride;
Till by your pen restor'd, in triumph borne,
The majefty of poetry return!

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN

UPON

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His Royal Highnefs the DUKE of YORK

Coming to the Theatre, Friday, April 21, 1682.

WHEN

THEN too much plenty, luxury, and ease,
Had furfeited this ifle to a difeafe;

When noisome blains did its best parts o'erfpread,
And on the reft their dire infection shed;
Our great Phyfician, who the nature knew
Of the distemper, and from whence it grew,
Fix'd, for three kingdoms' quiet, Sir, on you:
He caft his searching eyes o'er all the frame,
And finding whence before one fickness came,

How

How once before our mischiefs fofter'd were,
Knew well your virtue, and apply'd you there:
Where fo your goodness, so your justice sway'd,
You but appear'd, and the wild plague was stay'd.
When, from the filthy dunghill-faction bred,
New-form'd rebellion durft rear up its head,
Anfwer me all: Who ftruck the monfter dead?

See, fee, the injur'd prince, and bless his name,
Think on the martyr from whose loins he came ;
Think on the blood was fhed for you before,
And curfe the parricides that thirst for more.
His foes are yours, then of their wiles beware:
Lay, lay him in your hearts, and guard him there,
Where let his wrongs your zeal for him improve;
He wears a fword will justify your love.

With blood still ready for your good t' expend,
And has a heart that ne'er forgot his friend.
His duteous loyalty before you lay,
And learn of him, unmurmuring to obey.
Think what he 'as borne, your quiet to restore;
Repent your madness, and rebel no more.

No more let Boutefeus hope to lead petitions,
Scriveners to be treasurers; pedlars, politicians ;
Nor every fool, whose wife has tript at court,
Pluck up a fpirit, and turn rebel for 't.

In lands where cuckolds multiply like ours, What prince can be too jealous of their powers,, Or can too often think himself alarm'd ?

They 're mal-contents that every where go arm'd::

F 2

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And