The Poetical Entertainer Or, Tales, Satyrs, Dialogues, And Intrigues, &c. Serious and Comical. All digested into such Verse as most agreeable to the several Subjects. To be publish'd as often as occasion shall offer [by Edward Ward] |
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| II. |
| III. |
 | IV. |
Upon the late Learned and Ingenious Dr. William King.
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| V. |
 | The Poetical Entertainer |  |
17
Upon the late Learned and Ingenious Dr. William King.
Rowze up ye British Bards, no longer sleep
In envious Silence, but awake and weep!
Shake off those fading Laurels from your Brows,
Glean'd by dull Farce at the degen'rate House,
Or by worse Op'ras introduc'd to please
Fantastick Slaves to Folly, Pride, and Ease:
No longer upon Playhouse Praise depend,
Where Wise-men laugh at what the Fools commend:
Nor think you've Title to the Bays, because
You've oft been flatter'd with unjust Applause;
But to Apollo with Devotion fly,
Confess your Wants and beg a fresh supply
Of that Celestial Fire on none bestow'd
But Fav'rites of the kind Harmonious God,
Such as the late Learn'd King, whose teeming Brain
Gave Life Immortal to his artful Pen;
Till tir'd with an unthankful Jarring Age,
He fled his Muse, forsook the worldly Stage,
And left Apollo's Rival Sons to vie
Their poor remains of Wit in Elegy.
So the Coy Nymph, whose Charms each Swain admires,
When close pursu'd, to distant Shades retires,
Where, undisturb'd, in Solitude she stays,
And leaves the Rival Crowd to sing her Praise.
Therefore since King, who once was the delight
Of all who read what he vouchsaf'd to write,
Hath shook off dull Mortality to soar
Among the Blest, where Time shall be no more,
Embrace with ardour the capacious Theme,
And shew how much he merited Esteem;
Whose golden Writings will direct the way,
And teach you how to Think, and what to Say:
Record his Labours in immortal Verse,
And sing his Vertues round his pious Hearse;
Remember all his Learning and his Worth,
And mourn him back to his maternal Earth;
Tell what a Vein of Wit, what Chain of Thought
Enliven'd and adorn'd whate'er he wrote;
What Care he took in Ovid's Art of Love,
To change the Serpent to a harmless Dove,
And give us in a modest English Dress,
What in the Roman was obscene and base;
As if the British Bard was proud to shew
Himself the greater Poet of the two;
Who, as an Honour to that ancient School
Where Rev'rend Busby long maintain'd the Rule,
Bequeath'd his worthy Reliques to be laid
In those learn'd Cloisters where he first was bred.
There let him rest in Peace, but still admir'd
By all whom the kind Muses have inspir'd;
Whilst the fam'd Products of his matchless Pen
Shall, to the last, their native Worth retain,
Preserve their Beauties fresh without decay,
And ever shine around his mould'ring Clay.
Nor was his Wit, tho' chearfully dispos'd,
With Christian Bounds and Fences uninclos'd;
For none whose sprightly Genius flow'd his way,
To Holy Things could greater def'rence pay;
None in Religion's sacred Vineyard spent
More Time and Labour to improve Content;
Or with a truer Zeal could recommend
Those heav'nly Truths by Wits so oft prophan'd,
That to the Poet we may justly join,
Not the Civilian only but Divine:
In one rich Breast he made the Trine agree,
And was profoundly learn'd in all the Three:
By Nature much inclin'd to others Good,
And flow'd with Bounty, Love, and Gratitude;
Was kind to Friends, for whom he much impair'd
His Fortune, which too lib'rally they shar'd;
Yet, tho' his Gen'rous Hand reduc'd his Store,
H'enjoy'd too much Content to e'er be Poor;
And when Dame Fortune prov'd the most unkind,
Would still be rich in Thought and great in Mind
Thus, like the wise Philosophers of old,
Who taught us to despise the Charms of Gold,
He did the gauling Cares of Life defeat,
By Contemplation and a safe Retreat;
In which Angelick State he stood prepar'd
To suffer all that could on Earth be fear'd;
As if compleatly arm'd against his Fate,
And more than could on humane Nature wait,
Pruning those Talents Heaven had bestow'd,
And to Industry new Improvements ow'd,
Till he had conquer'd each politer part
Of Learning, and was skill'd in e'ery Art,
Yet ne'er affected to be thought more wise
Than they who could not to his Knowledge rise,
Scorning to tyrannize o'er those he found
Too weak or modest to maintain their ground,
Cooly forbearing rather to contend,
Than argue to expose an erring Friend,
Tho' other Wits their utmost strength advance,
To triumph o'er mistaken Ignorance,
And hazard Friendship only to appear
Too vainly Learn'd or wittily Severe.
But King disdaining such pedantick Pride,
Would tacitly his own Perfections hide,
Much rather than sollicit human Praise,
By making others, not his Equals, less;
Yet, like a kind Preceptor, took delight
To set a misled Adversary right;
But did it by such means as must convince
Mistaken Zeal, without the least offence;
With no ill Nature would his Wit debauch,
But modestly correct without Reproach.
In envious Silence, but awake and weep!
Shake off those fading Laurels from your Brows,
Glean'd by dull Farce at the degen'rate House,
Or by worse Op'ras introduc'd to please
Fantastick Slaves to Folly, Pride, and Ease:
No longer upon Playhouse Praise depend,
Where Wise-men laugh at what the Fools commend:
Nor think you've Title to the Bays, because
You've oft been flatter'd with unjust Applause;
But to Apollo with Devotion fly,
Confess your Wants and beg a fresh supply
Of that Celestial Fire on none bestow'd
But Fav'rites of the kind Harmonious God,
Such as the late Learn'd King, whose teeming Brain
Gave Life Immortal to his artful Pen;
18
He fled his Muse, forsook the worldly Stage,
And left Apollo's Rival Sons to vie
Their poor remains of Wit in Elegy.
So the Coy Nymph, whose Charms each Swain admires,
When close pursu'd, to distant Shades retires,
Where, undisturb'd, in Solitude she stays,
And leaves the Rival Crowd to sing her Praise.
Therefore since King, who once was the delight
Of all who read what he vouchsaf'd to write,
Hath shook off dull Mortality to soar
Among the Blest, where Time shall be no more,
Embrace with ardour the capacious Theme,
And shew how much he merited Esteem;
Whose golden Writings will direct the way,
And teach you how to Think, and what to Say:
Record his Labours in immortal Verse,
And sing his Vertues round his pious Hearse;
Remember all his Learning and his Worth,
And mourn him back to his maternal Earth;
19
Enliven'd and adorn'd whate'er he wrote;
What Care he took in Ovid's Art of Love,
To change the Serpent to a harmless Dove,
And give us in a modest English Dress,
What in the Roman was obscene and base;
As if the British Bard was proud to shew
Himself the greater Poet of the two;
Who, as an Honour to that ancient School
Where Rev'rend Busby long maintain'd the Rule,
Bequeath'd his worthy Reliques to be laid
In those learn'd Cloisters where he first was bred.
There let him rest in Peace, but still admir'd
By all whom the kind Muses have inspir'd;
Whilst the fam'd Products of his matchless Pen
Shall, to the last, their native Worth retain,
Preserve their Beauties fresh without decay,
And ever shine around his mould'ring Clay.
Nor was his Wit, tho' chearfully dispos'd,
With Christian Bounds and Fences uninclos'd;
20
To Holy Things could greater def'rence pay;
None in Religion's sacred Vineyard spent
More Time and Labour to improve Content;
Or with a truer Zeal could recommend
Those heav'nly Truths by Wits so oft prophan'd,
That to the Poet we may justly join,
Not the Civilian only but Divine:
In one rich Breast he made the Trine agree,
And was profoundly learn'd in all the Three:
By Nature much inclin'd to others Good,
And flow'd with Bounty, Love, and Gratitude;
Was kind to Friends, for whom he much impair'd
His Fortune, which too lib'rally they shar'd;
Yet, tho' his Gen'rous Hand reduc'd his Store,
H'enjoy'd too much Content to e'er be Poor;
And when Dame Fortune prov'd the most unkind,
Would still be rich in Thought and great in Mind
Thus, like the wise Philosophers of old,
Who taught us to despise the Charms of Gold,
21
By Contemplation and a safe Retreat;
In which Angelick State he stood prepar'd
To suffer all that could on Earth be fear'd;
As if compleatly arm'd against his Fate,
And more than could on humane Nature wait,
Pruning those Talents Heaven had bestow'd,
And to Industry new Improvements ow'd,
Till he had conquer'd each politer part
Of Learning, and was skill'd in e'ery Art,
Yet ne'er affected to be thought more wise
Than they who could not to his Knowledge rise,
Scorning to tyrannize o'er those he found
Too weak or modest to maintain their ground,
Cooly forbearing rather to contend,
Than argue to expose an erring Friend,
Tho' other Wits their utmost strength advance,
To triumph o'er mistaken Ignorance,
And hazard Friendship only to appear
Too vainly Learn'd or wittily Severe.
22
Would tacitly his own Perfections hide,
Much rather than sollicit human Praise,
By making others, not his Equals, less;
Yet, like a kind Preceptor, took delight
To set a misled Adversary right;
But did it by such means as must convince
Mistaken Zeal, without the least offence;
With no ill Nature would his Wit debauch,
But modestly correct without Reproach.
To thee, O Julius! I submit the rest,
Thou know'st his Worth and all his Vertues best,
Who in his Sickness, like a faithful Friend,
Lent him thy kind Assistance to his End,
And by the artful Helps by thee apply'd,
Sustain'd weak Nature long before he dy'd;
Thy skilful Hand still gave the Worthy Breath
And Courage to resist approaching Death,
Till watchful Fate advantage took at last,
And to the Ground the bleeding Victim cast.
So costly Fabricks which appear so fair,
And Monuments which now so beauteous are,
Must fall at last, in spight of all repair.
Thou know'st his Worth and all his Vertues best,
Who in his Sickness, like a faithful Friend,
Lent him thy kind Assistance to his End,
And by the artful Helps by thee apply'd,
Sustain'd weak Nature long before he dy'd;
Thy skilful Hand still gave the Worthy Breath
And Courage to resist approaching Death,
Till watchful Fate advantage took at last,
And to the Ground the bleeding Victim cast.
23
And Monuments which now so beauteous are,
Must fall at last, in spight of all repair.
Nor didst thou leave him when bereft of Life,
But acted like a fond forsaken Wife,
With Grief distracted, follow'd to his Grave,
And mourn'd the loss of him no Art could save:
Therefore, dear Widow-Friend, to thee alone
Belongs the Elegiack Praise of him that's gone;
None but thy amicable Muse can claim
The right of weeping, as she sings his Fame:
O prune her Wings that she aloft may tow'r,
And borrow Aid of some superior Pow'r,
That in Seraphick Numbers she may sing
Aloud, the Praises of Immortal King.
O Julius dwell upon a Theme so good,
That from thy Friendship, Grief and Gratitude,
Others may labour to refine their Dross,
And learn of thee to mourn so great a Loss.
But acted like a fond forsaken Wife,
With Grief distracted, follow'd to his Grave,
And mourn'd the loss of him no Art could save:
Therefore, dear Widow-Friend, to thee alone
Belongs the Elegiack Praise of him that's gone;
None but thy amicable Muse can claim
The right of weeping, as she sings his Fame:
O prune her Wings that she aloft may tow'r,
And borrow Aid of some superior Pow'r,
That in Seraphick Numbers she may sing
Aloud, the Praises of Immortal King.
O Julius dwell upon a Theme so good,
That from thy Friendship, Grief and Gratitude,
Others may labour to refine their Dross,
And learn of thee to mourn so great a Loss.
| The Poetical Entertainer | |