MISCELLANIES.

THE MOTT O.

WHAT

"Tentanda via eft, &c."

HAT fhall I do to be for ever known,
And make the age to come my own?
I fhall, like beafts or common people, die,
Unless you write my elegy;

Whilft others great, by being born, are grown;
Their mothers' labour, not their own.

In this fcale gold, in th' other fame does lie,
The weight of that mounts this fo high.
These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright;
Brought forth with their own fire and light:

If I, her vulgar stone, for either look,

Out of myself it must be ftrook.

Yet I must on; What found is 't ftrikes mine ear?
Sure I Fame's trumpet hear:

It founds like the laft trumpet; for it can
Raife up the buried man.

Unpaft Alps ftop me; but I'll cut them all,
And march, the Mufes' Hannibal.

Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay
Nets of roses in the way!

Hence, the defire of honours or estate,

And all that is not above Fate !

Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my

Which intercepts my coming praise.

days!

Come,

Come, my

my

best friends, books! and lead me on;
'Tis time that I were gone.

Welcome, great Stagyrite! and teach me now
All I was born to know:

Thy scholar's victories thou doft far out-do;

He conquer'd th' earth, the whole world you. Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose bleft tongue and wit Preferves Rome's greatness yet:

Thou art the first of Orators; only he

Who beft can praise thee, next must be.
Welcome the Mantuan fwan, Virgil the wife!
Whose verse walks highest, but not flies;
Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age,
And made that Art which was a Rage.
Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I do
To be like one of you?

But you have climb'd the mountain's top, there fit
On the calm flourishing head of it,
And, whilft with wearied fteps we upward go,
See us, and clouds, below.

OD E.

1

TELL

ELL me, O tell, what kind of thing is Wit,
Thou who mafter art of it?

For the first matter loves variety less;

Lefs women love 't, either in love or drefs.

A thousand different shapes it bears, Comely in thousand shapes appears. Yonder we faw it plain; and here 'tis now, Like fpirits, in a place we know not how.

London, that vents of false ware so much store,
In no ware deceives us more;

For men, led by the colour and the shape,
Like Zeuxis' birds, fly to the painted grape.

Some things do through our judgment pafs
As through a multiplying-glass;

And fometimes, if the object be too far,
We take a falling meteor for a ftar.

Hence 'tis a Wit, that greatest word of fame,
Grows fuch a common name;

And Wits by our creation they become,
Juft fo as titular bishops made at Rome.
'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jest

Admir'd with laughter at a feast, Nor florid talk, which can that title gain; The proofs of Wit for ever must remain,

'Tis