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To all fond thoughts I'll fing fuch counter-charms,
The fair fhall liften in their lovers arms.

Now the enthusiastick fit is spent,
I feel my weakness, and too late repent.

As they who walk in dreams, oft climb too high.
For fenfe to follow with a waking eye;
And in fuch wild attempts are blindly bold,
Which afterwards they tremble to behold:
So I review these fallies of my pen,
And modest reason is return'd agen;
My confidence I curfe, my fate accufe,
Scarce hold from cenfuring the facred muse.
No wretched poet of the railing pit,
No critick curs'd with the wrong fide of wit,
Is more fevere from ignorance and fpite,
Than I with judgment against all I write.

On Mr. HOBBS, and his Writings.

UCH is the mode of these cenforious days,
The art is loft of knowing how to praife;
Poets are envious now, and fools alone
Admire at wit, because themselves have none.
Yet whatfoe'er is by vain criticks thought,
Praising is harder much than finding fault;
In homely pieces ev'n the Dutch excel,
Italians only can draw beauty well.

As ftrings, alike wound up, fo equal prove,
That one refounding makes the other move;
From fuch a cause our fatires please so much,
We fympathize with each ill-natur'd touch;
And as the sharp infection spreads about,
The reader's malice helps the writer out.
To blame, is eafy; to commend, is bold;
Yet, if the mufe infpires it, who can hold?
To merit we are bound to give applause,
Content to fuffer in so just a caufe.

While in dark ignorance we lay afraid
Of fancies, ghosts, and ev'ry empty shade;
Great HоBBS appear'd, and by plain reafon's light
Put fuch fantastick forms to fhameful flight.
Fond is their fear, who think men needs must be
To vice enflav'd, if from vain terrors free;
The wife and good, morality will guide,
And fuperftition all the world befide.

In other authors, tho' the thought be good, 'Tis not fometimes fo eas'ly understood;

That jewel oft unpolish'd has remain'd;
Some words should be left out, and some explain'd;
So that in search of fenfe, we either stray,

Or elfe
grow weary
in fo rough a way.
But here fweet eloquence does always smile,
In fuch a choice, yet unaffected style,
As must both knowledge and delight impart,
The force of reason, with the flow'rs of art;
Clear as a beautiful transparent skin,
Which never hides the blood, yet holds it in:
Like a delicious stream it ever ran,

As fmooth as woman, but as strong as man.
BACON himself, whose universal wit
Does admiration through the world beget,
Scarce more his age's ornament is thought,
Or greater credit to his country brought.

While fame is young, too weak to fly away,
Malice purfues her, like fome bird of prey;
But once on wing, then all the quarrels cease;
Envy herself is glad to be at peace,
Gives over, weary'd with fo high a flight,
Above her reach, and scarce within her fight.
HOBBS to this happy pitch arriv'd at last,
Might have look'd down with pride on dangers past:
But fuch the frailty is of human kind,

Men toil for fame, which no man lives to find;
Long rip'ning under ground this China lies;
Fame bears no fruit, till the vain planter dies.

Thus nature, tir'd with his unufual length
Of life, which put her to her utmost strength,
Such stock of wit unable to fupply,
To spare herself, was glad to let him die.

Written over a Gate.

H

ERE lives a man, who, by relation,
Depends upon predestination;

For which the learned and the wife'
His understanding much defpife:
But I pronounce with loyal tongue
Him in the right, them in the wrong.
For how could fuch a wretch fucceed?
But that, alas, it was DECREED!

M

The MIRACLE, 1707.

ERIT they hate, and wit they flight;
They neither act, nor reafon right,

And nothing mind but

pence.

Unskilful they victorious are,

Conduct a kingdom without care,
A council without fenfe.

So MOSES s once,

and JOSHUA,

And that virago Debora,

Beftrid poor ISRAEL:

Like rev'rence pay to these! for who
Could ride a nation as they do,
Without a miracle?

P

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