The writer's and the setter's skill
At once the ravish'd ears do fill.
Let those which only warble long,
And gargle in their throats a song,
Content themselves with Ut, Re, Mi;
Let words and sense be set by thee.

THUS the wise nightingale that leaves her home, Her native wood, when storms and winter come, Pursuing constantly the cheerful spring,

To foreign groves does her old music bring.

The drooping Hebrews banish'd, harps unstrung At Babylon upon the willows hung:

Your's sounds aloud, and tells us you excel
No less in courage than in singing well;
While unconcern'd you let your country know,
They have impoverish'd themselves, not you;
Who with the Muses' help can mock those fates
Which threaten kingdoms and disorder states.
So Ovid, when from Cæsar's rage he fled,
The Roman Muse to Pontus with him led;
Where he so sung, that we, through Pity's glass,
See Nero milder than Augustus was.
Hereafter such in thy behalf shall be
The' indulgent censure of posterity.

To banish those who with such art can sing,
Is a rude crime which its own curse doth bring:
Ages to come shall ne'er know how they fought,
Nor how to love their present youth be taught.

This to thyself.-Now to thy matchless book,
Wherein those few that can with judgment look,
May find old love in pure fresh language told,
Like new-stamp'd coin made out of angel gold;
Such truth in love as the' antique world did know,
In such a style as courts may boast of now;
Which no bold tales of gods or monsters swell,
But human passions, such as with us dwell.
Man is thy theme, his virtue or his rage
Drawn to the life in each elaborate page.
Mars nor Bellona are not named here,
But such a Gondibert as both might fear:
Venus had here, and Hebe, been outshined
By thy bright Birtha and thy Rhodalind.
Such is thy happy skill, and such the odds
Betwixt thy worthies and the Grecian gods!
Whose deities in vain had here come down,
Where mortal beauty wears the sovereign crown:
Such as of flesh composed, by flesh and blood,
Though not resisted, may be understood.

ΤΟ ΜΥ

WORTHY FRIEND MR. WASE,

THE TRANSLATOR OF GRATIUS.

THUS, by the music, we may know
When noble wits a hunting go
Through groves that on Parnassus grow.

The Muses all the chase adorn;
My friend on Pegasus is borne;

And young Apollo winds the horn.

Having old Gratius in the wind,
No pack of critics e'er could find,
Or he know more of his own mind.

Here huntsmen with delight may read
How to choose dogs for scent or speed,
And how to change or mend the breed.

What arms to use or nets to frame,
Wild beasts to combat or to tame;
With all the mysteries of that game.

But, worthy friend! the face of war
In ancient times doth differ far
From what our fiery battles are.

Nor is it like, since powder known,
That man, so cruel to his own,

Should spare the race of beasts alone.

No quarter now, but with the gun
Men wait in trees from sun to sun,
And all is in a moment done.

And therefore we expect your next
Should be no comment, but a text
To tell how modern beasts are vex'd.

Thus would I further yet engage
Your gentle Muse to court the age
With somewhat of your proper rage.

Since none does more to Phoebus owe,
Or in more languages can show
Those arts which you so early know.

TO MY

WORTHY FRIEND MR. EVELYN,

UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF LUCRETIUS.

LUCRETIUS, (with a stork-like fate,
Born and translated in a state)
Comes to proclaim, in English verse,
No monarch rules the universe,

But chance, and atoms, make this All
In order democratical,

Where bodies freely run their course,
Without design, or fate, or force:
And this in such a strain he sings,
As if his Muse, with angel's wings,
Had soar'd beyond our utmost sphere,
And other worlds discover'd there:
For his immortal, boundless wit,
To Nature does no bounds permit,
But boldly has removed those bars
Of heaven, and earth, and seas, and stars,
By which they were before supposed,
By narrow wits, to be enclosed,

Till his free Muse threw down the pale,
And did at once dispark them all.
So vast this argument did seem,
That the wise author did esteem
The Roman language (which was spread
O'er the whole world, in triumph led)
A tongue too narrow to unfold

The wonders which he would have told.
This speaks thy glory, noble friend!
And British language does commend ;
For here Lucretius whole we find,
His words, his music, and his mind,

Thy art has to our country brought

All that he writ, and all he thought.

Ovid translated, Virgil too,

Show'd long since what our tongue could do ;

Nor Lucan we, nor Horace spared ;
Only Lucretius was too hard:
Lucretius, like a fort, did stand
Untouch'd, till your victorious hand
Did from his head this garland bear,
Which now upon your own you wear;
A garland! made of such new bays,
And sought in such untrodden ways,
As no man's temples e'er did crown,
Save this great author's and your own!

TO MR. CREECH,

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF LUCRETIUS.

WHAT all men wish'd though few could hope to see,
We are now bless'd with, and obliged by thee.
Thou! from the ancient learned Latin store
Givest us one author, and we hope for more.
May they enjoy thy thoughts!—Let not the Stage
The idlest moment of thy hours engage. [breeds,
Each year that place some wondrous monster
And the Wits' garden is o'errun with weeds.
There, farce is comedy; bombast call'd strong;
Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
'Tis hard to say they steal them now-a-days,
For sure the ancients never wrote such plays.
These scribbling insects have what they deserve,
Not plenty, nor the glory for to starve.
That Spenser knew, that Tasso felt before,
And Death found surly Ben exceeding poor,