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His Joy conceald, he sets himself to show,
On each side bowing popularly low :
His Looks, his Gestures, and his Words he frames,
And with familiar Ease repeats their Names.
Thus form'd by Nature, furnish'd out with Arts,
He glides unfelt into their secret Hearts;
Fame runs before him as the morning Star,
And Shouts of Joy salute him from afar.
Each House receives him as a Guardian-God,
And consecrates the Place of his Abode. Dryd. Abs. Achit.
The People rend the Skies with loud Applause,
And Heav'n can hear no other Name but yours;
The thronging Crowds press on you as you pass,
And with their eager Joy make Triumph flow. Dryd. Span, Fry.
Thou art thy longing Country's Darling and Desire,
Their cloudy Pillar
and their Guardian Fire ;
Their second Mofes, whose extended Wand
Divides the Seas, and shews the promis'd Land :
Whose dawning Day in ev'ry diftant Age,
Has exercis'd the sacred Prophet's Rage ;
The People's Pray'r, the glad Diviner's Theme,
The young Mens Vision and the old Mens Dream.
Thee Saviour, thee the Nation's Vows confess;
And, never satisfy'd with seeing, bless.
Swift unbespoken Pomps thy Steps proclaim, (to Achit.
And stamm'ring Babes are taught to lisp thy Name. Dryd. Abs.
speak of him, and the bleared Sighes
Are fpe&tacled to see him. Your pratling Nurse
Into a Rapture lets her Bady cry,
While the chats him. The Kitchin Malkin pins
Her richeft Lockram 'bout her reeky Neck,
Clamb'ring the Walls to see him :
Stalls, Bulks, Windows are smother'd up,
Leads fills, and Ridges hors'd.
I've seen the dumb Men throng to see him,
And the Blind to hear him speak. The Nobles bended
As to Jove's Statue; and the Commons made
(Corial. A Show'r and Thunder with their Caps and Shouts. Shak.
PO Y SON.
Observe in this small Phial certain Death;
It holds a Poyson of such deadly Force,
Should Æsculapiru drink it, in five Hours,
For then it works, the God himself were mortal.
I drew it from Nonacres horrid Spring:
It scatters Pains
All forts, and thro' all Nerves, Veins, Arteries,
Ev'n with Extremity of Frost it burns ;
Drives the distracted Soul about her House,
Who runs to all the Pores, the Doors of Life,
Till she is forc'd for Air to leave her Dwelling. Lee Alex.
Alex. Search there, nay probe me, search my wounded Reins:
Pull, draw it out :
Oh! 'I am shot, a forked burning Arrow
Sticks cross my Shoulders; the sad Venom fios
Like Lightning thro' my Flesh, my Blood, my Marrow.
Ha! what a Change of Torments I endure?
A Bolt of Ice runs hizzing through my Bowels,
'Tis sure the Arm of Death:
Cover me, for I freeze, my Teçch chatter,
And my Knees knock together.
Perd. Heav'n bless the King!
Alex. Ha! who talks of Heaven?
I am all Hell, I burn, I burn agen.
My vital Spirits are quite parch’d, burnt up,
And all my (moaky Entrails turn'd to Alhes.
Nothing in vain the Gods create ;
This Bough was made to haften Fate.
'Twas in Compassion of our Woe,
That Nature first made Poyfons grow,
For hopeless Wretches, such as I,
providing Means to die.
As Mothers do their Children keep,
So Nature feeds, and makes us fleep;
The Indispos'd she does invite
To go to Bed before 'tis Night.
Dead I shall be, as when unborn ;
And then I knew nor Love nor Scorn.
Like Slaves redeem'd, Death fets us free
From Passion and from Injury.
The Living, chain'd to Fortune's Wheel,
In Triumph led, her Changes feçl ;
And Conquerors kept Poyfons by,
Prepar'd for her Inconftancy.
Bays against Thunder might defend their Brow;
But against Love and Fortune here's the Bough. Wat
Quick Shootings through my Limbs, and pricking Pains,
Qualms at my Heart, Convulsions in my Nerves,
Shiv'rings of Cold, and burning of my Entrails,
Within my little World make medly War,
Lose and regain, beat and are beaten back,
As momentary Vietors quit their Ground:
Some deadly Draught, lome Enemy to Life,
Poils in my Bowels, and works out my Sout. Dryd. Dox Seb.
PREDESTINATION and FREE WILL.
But here the Do&ors eagerly dispute,
Some hold Predestination absolute :
Some Clerks maintaini, that Heay'n at first foresees,
And in the Virtue of Foresight decrees.
If this be fo, then.Prescience binds the Will,
And Mortals are not free to Good or Ill;
For what he first foresaw he must ordain,
Or his eternal Prescience may be vain :
As bad for us if Prescience had not been ;
For first or last he's Author of the Sin.
And who says that, let the blaspheming Man
Say worse, ev'n of the Devil, if he can:
For how can that eternal Pow'r be just
To punish Man, who fins because he must ?
O: how can he reward a virtuous Deed,
Which is not done by us, but first decreed ?
I cannot boult this Matter to the Bran,
As Biadwardin and holy Arstin can:
If Presçience can determine A&ions fo,
That we must do because he did foreknow;
Or that foreknowing, yet our Choice is free,
Not forc'd co fin by strict Necessity :
This ftri&t Neceflity they fimple call;
Another sort there is conditional:
The first so binds the Will, that things foreknown,
By Spontaneity not Choice are done.
Thus Galley-slaves tug willing at their Qar,
Content to work in Profpe&t of the Shore ;
But would not work at all if not constrain'd before.
The other does not Liberty restrain,
But Man may either act or may refrain;
Heav'n made us Agents free to Good or Ill,
And forc'd it not, tho'he foresaw the Will.
Freedom was first bestow'd on human Race,
And Prescience only held the second place.
if he could make such'Agents wholly free,
I'll not dispute, the Point's too high for me ;
For Heav'n's unfathom'd Power what Man can sound,
Or put to his Omnipotence a Bound ?
He made us to his Image all agree,
That Image is the Soul, and that must be,
Or not the Maker's Image, or be free.
Bur whether it had better Man had been
By Nature bound to Good, not free to Sin,
(Fo. I wave, for fear of splitting on a Rock. Dryd. the Cock and the
The Priesthood grolly cheat us with Free-will,
Will to do what ? But what Heaven first decreed :
Our Actions then are neither good nor ill,
Since from eternal Causes they proceed.
Our Passions, Fear and Anger, Love and Hate,
Meer senseless Engines that are mov'd by Fate :
Like Ships on ftormy Seas without a Guide,
Tost by the Winds, and driven by the Tide. Dryd. Span. Fry.
Hard State of Life! since Heav'n foreknows my Will,
Why am I not ty'd up from doing Ill?
Why am I trusted with my self at large ?
When he's more able to sustain the Charge ?
Since Angels fell, whose Strength was more than mine,
'Twould Thew more Grace my Frailty to confine.
For knowing the Success, to leave me free,
Excuses him, and yet fupports not me.
Dryd. State of Inn.
A Parish-Priest was of the Pilgrim-Train :
An awful, rev'rend, and religious Man.
His Eyes diffus'd a venerable Grace,
And Charity ic self was in his Face.
Rich was his Soul, tho' his Attire was poor,
As God had cloath'd his own Ambassador ;
For such, on Earth, his bleft Redeemer bore.
Refind himself to Soul, to curb the Sense,
And made almost a Sin of Abstinence.
Yet had his Afpe&t nothing of severe,
But such a Face as promis'd him sincere.
Nothing reserv’d, or fullen was to see;
But sweet Regards, and pleasing Sanctity :
Mild was his Accent; and his A&tion free.
With Eloquence innate his Soul was arm'd ;
Tho' harsh the Precept, yet the Preacher charm d.
He bore his great Commission in his Look :
But sweetly temper'd Awe, and soften'd all he spokę.
He taught the Gospel rather than the Law;
And forc'd himself to drive ; but lov'd to draw:
For Fear but freezes Minds; but Love, like Heat,
Exhales the Soul sublime to seek her native Seat.
The Tythes, his Parish freely paid, he took ;
But never su'd, or curs’d with Bell and Book.
With Patience bearing Wrong, but off'ring none,
Since ev'ry Man is free to lose his own.
Yet of his little he had some to spare,
To feed the Familh'd, and to cloath the Bare.
And still he was at Hand, without Requeft,
To serve the Sick, to succour the Distress'de
To study Souls, their Cures, and their Diseases ?
The Province of the Soul is large enough
To fill up ev'ry Cranny of your Time,
And leave you much
to answer, if one Wretch
Be damn'd by your Neglect.
Why then these foreign Thoughts of State Employments,
Abhorrent to your Function, and your Breeding ?
Poor droning Truants of unpractis'd Cells,
Bred in the Fellowship of bearded Boys;
What Wonder is it if you know not Men?
Yet there you live demure with down-cast Eyes,
And humble as your Discipline reguires:
But when let loose from thence to live at large,
Your little Tincture of Devotion dies :
Then Luxury succeeds, and sec agog
With a new Scene of yet yntafted Joys,
You fall with greedy Hunger to the Feast;
Of all your College Virtues, nothing now
But your original Ignorance remains.
Triumphant Plenty, with a chearful Grace,
Basks in their Eyes, and sparkles in their Face:
How sleek their Looks, how goodly is their Mien,
When big they strut behind a double Chin?
Each Faculty in Blandishments they lull,
Aspiring to be venerably dull.
No learn's Debates moleft their downy Trance,
Or discompose their pompous Ignorance.
But undifturb'd they loiter Life away,
So wither Green, and blossom in Decay.
Deep funk in Down, they by Sloth's gentle Care,
'Avoid th'Inclemencies of Morning Air;
And leave to tatter'd Grape, the, Drudgery of Pray'r
But bloated with Ambition, Pride and Avarice,
You swell to counsel Kings and govern Kingdoms :
Content you with monopolizing Heay'n,
And let this little haoging Ball alone ;
For give you but a Foot of Conscience there,
And you, like Archimedes, toss the Globe,
Your Saviour came not with a gawdy Show,
Nor was his Kingdom of the World below;
Patience in Want, and Poverty of Mind,
These Marks of Church and Churchmen he design'd,
And living caught, and dying left behind.
The Crown he wore was of the pointed Thorn,
In Purple he was crucify’d, not born :
They who contend for Place and high Degree,
Are not his Sons, but those of Zebedec.