University of Virginia Library

Occasioned by the present Edition of the ensuing Poems, and the Death of the ingenious Author.

Curs'd be the day when first this goodly Isle
Vile Books, and useless thinking did defile.
In Greek and Latin-Boggs our Time we waste,
When all is Pain and Weariness at best:
Mountains of Whims and Doubts we travel o'er,
While treacherous Fancy dances on before:
Pleas'd with our Danger still we stumble on,
To late repent, and are too soon undone.
Let Bodley now in its own Ruines lie,
By th' common Hangman burnt for Heresie.
Avoid the nasty learned Dust, 'twill breed
More Plagues than ever Jakes or Dunghils did.
The want of Dulness will the World undo,
'Tis Learning makes us mad and Rebels too.
Learning, a Jilt which while we do enjoy,
Slily our Rest and Quiet steals away;
That greedily the Blood of Youth receives,
And nought but Blindness and a Dotage gives.
Worse than the Pox, or scolding Woman fly
The awkward Madness of Philosophy.
That Bedlam Bess, Religion never more
Phantastick pie-ball'd, antick Dresses wore:
Opinion, Pride, Moroseness gives a Fame;
'Tis Folly, christen'd with a modish Name.
Let dull Divinity no more delight;
It spoils the Man, and makes an Hypocrite.
The chief Professors to Preferment fly,
By Cringe and Scrape, the basest Simony.
The humble Clown will best the Gospel teach,
And inspir'd Ign'rance sounder Doctrines preach.
A way to Heav'n mere Nature well does shew,
Which reasoning and Disputes can never know.
Yet still proud Tyrant Sence in Pomp appears,
And claims a Tribute of full threescore Years.
Sew'd in a Sack, with Darkness circl'd round,
Each man must be with Snakes and Monkeys drown'd.
Laborious Folly, and compendious Art,
To waste that Life whose longest Date's too short.
Laborious Folly, to wind up with Pain
What Death unravels soon, and renders vain.
We blindly hurry on in mystick ways,
Nor wisely tread the Paths of solid Praise.
There's nought deserves one precious drop of sweat,
But Poetry, the noblest Gift of Fate,
Which after Death does a more lasting Life beget.
Not that which suddain, frantick Heats produce,
Where Wine and Pride, not Heav'n shall raise the Muse.
Not that small Stock which does Translators make;
That Trade poor Bankrupt-Poetasters take:
But such, when God his Fiat did express,
And powerful Numbers wrought an Universe.
With such great David tun'd his charming Lyre,
That even Saul and Madness could admire.
With such Great Oldham bravely did excell,
That David's Lamentation sung so well.
Oldham! the Man that could with Judgment write,
Our Oxford's Glory, and the World's Delight.
Sometimes in boundless keenest Satyr bold,
Sometimes a soft as those Love-tales he told.
That Vice could praise, and Vertue too disgrace;
The first Excess of Wit that e'er did please.
Scarce Cowley such Pindarique soaring knew,
Yet by his Reader still was kept in view.
His Fancy, like Jove's Eagle liv'd above,
And bearing Thunder still would upward move.
Oh Noble Kingston! had thy lovely Guest
With a large stock of Youth and Life been Blest;
Not all thy Greatness, and thy Vertues store
Had surer Comforts been, or pleased thee more.
But Oh! the date is short of mighty Worth,
And Angels never tarry long on Earth.
His soul, the bright, the pure Etherial Flame
To those lov'd Regions flew, from whence it came.
And spight of what Mankind had long believ'd,
My Creed says only Poets can be sav'd.
That God has only for a number staid,
To stop the breach, which Rebel Angels made
For none their absence can so well supply;
They are all o're Seraphick Harmony.
Then, and not that till then the World shall burn
And its base Dross, Mankind their fortune mourn,
While all to their old nothing quick return.
The peevish Gritick then shall be asham'd,
And for his Sins of Vanity be damn'd.