ON

Mr. HOBBS

AND HIS

WRITING S

UCH is the Mode of thefe cenforious Days,

SUC

The Art is loft of knowing how to praise;

Poets are envious now, and Fools alone
Admire at Wit, because themselves have none.
Yet whatsoe'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 Strings, alike wound up, fo equal prove,
That one refounding makes the other move;

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From such a cause our Satires please so much,
We sympathize with each ill-natur'd Touch,
And as the sharp Infection spreads about,
The Reader's Malice helps the Writer out.
To blame, is easy; 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 fo juft a Caufe,

While in dark Ignorance we lay afraid

;

Of Fancies, Ghosts, and every empty Shade;
Great HоBBS appear'd, and by plain Reason'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 Superstition all the World befide.

In other Authors tho' the Thought be good,

→Tis not sometimes fo eas❜ly understood;

That Jewel oft unpolish'd has remain’d,

Some Words fhould be left out, and fome explain'd;

So that in fearch of Senfe, we either ftray,
Or elfe grow weary in fo rough a way.
But here fweet Eloquence does always fimile,
In fuch a choice, yet unaffected Style,

As must both Knowledge and Delight impart,
The Force of Reafon, with the Flowers of Art;
Clear as a beautiful transparent Skin,

Which never hides the Blood, yet holds it in:
Like a delicious Stream it cyer ran,

As fimooth as Woman, but as ftrong as Man,
BACON himself, whofe univerfal 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 pursues her, like fome Bird of Prey;
But once on wing, then all the Quarrels cease;
Envy her felf is glad to be at peace,

Gives over, weary'd with so high a Flight,
Above her reach, and scarce within her Sight.

HOBBS

HOBBS to this happy Pitch arriv'd at last,

Might have look'd down with Pride on Dangers paft.
But fuch the Frailty is of Human Kind,

Men toil for Fame, which no Man lives to find;
Long ripening under-ground this China lics;
Fame bears no Fruit, till the vain Planter dies.
Thus Nature, tir'd with his unusual length
Of Life, which put her to her utmost Strength,
Such Stock of Wit unable to supply,
To fpare her felf, was glad to let him die.

H

Written over a GATE.

ERE lives a Man, who by relation
Depends upon Predestination;

For which the Learned and the Wife,
His Understanding much despise:

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!

The