_Let the young_ Austrian _then her Terrours bear, Great as he is, her Delegate in War. Let him in Thunder speak to both his_ Spains, _That in these dreadful Isles a Woman reigns: Whilst the bright Queen does on her Subjects show'r, The gentle Blessings of her softer Pow'r, Gives sacred Morals to a vicious Age, To Temples Zeal, and Manners to the Stage; Bids the chaste Muse without a Blush appear, And Wit be that, which Heaven and she may hear._ Of what Kind shall we take this Image in _Spencer_ to be: _His haughty Helmet, horrid all with Gold, Both glorious Brightness and great Terrour bred; For all the Crest a Dragon did enfold With greedy Paws, and over all did spread His golden Wings; his dreadful hideous Head, Close couched on the Bever, seem'd to throw, From flaming Mouth, bright Sparkles fiery red_, &c. This of _Cowley_ is finely thought: _Now all the wide extended Sky, And all th' harmonious Worlds on high, And_ Virgil_'s sacred Work shall dye._ And this of _Waller_ to Queen _Henrietta Maria_: _A brave Romance who would exactly frame, First brings his Knight from some immortal Dame, And then a Weapon and a flaming Shield, Bright as his Mother's Eyes, he makes him wield. None might the Mother of_ Achilles _be, But the fair Pearl and Glory of the Sea. The Man to whom Great_ Maro _gives such Fame, From the high Bed of heavenly_ Venus _came. And our next_ Charles, _whom all the Stars design Like Wonders to accomplish, springs from thine._ And this to _Zelinda_: _Fairest Piece of well form'd Earth, Urge not thus your haughty Birth; The Pow'r, which you have o'er us, lies, Not in your Race, but in your Eyes._ And these Verses of Mr. _Addison_ to the Lord _Hallifax_: _Oh Liberty, thou Goddess heav'nly bright! Profuse of Bliss, and Pregnant with Delight; Eternal Pleasures in thy Presence reign, And smiling plenty leads thy wanton Train. Eas'd of her Load, Subjection grows more light, And Poverty looks chearful in thy Sight: Thou mak'st the gloomy Face of Nature gay, Giv'st Beauty to the Sun, and Pleasure to the Day._ These four Verses, Part of the late Duke of _Buckingham_'s Poem upon _Hobbes_, contain, as I conceive, a fine Thought: _But such the Frailty is of humane 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._ But the next Verses contain a false Thought, if I have a Right Conception of it: _And Nature tir'd with his unusual Length Of Life, which put her to her utmost Strength; So vast a Soul, unable to supply, To save herself, was forc'd to let him die._ Whatever it is we understand by Nature, we can have no such Idea of it, as to imagine Mr. _Hobbes_ cou'd have been too hard for it.