But who can _Amiels_ charming Wit withstand, The great State-pillar of the Muses Land. For lawless and ungovern'd, had the Age The Nine wild Sisters seen run mad with Rage, Debaucht to Savages, till his keen Pen Brought their long banisht Reason back again, Driven by his Satyres into Natures Fence, And lasht the idle Rovers into Sense. Nay, his sly Muse, in Style Prophetick, wrot The whole Intrigue of _Israels_ Ethnick Plot; Form'd strange Battalions, in stupendious-wise, Whole Camps in Masquerade, and Armies in disguise. _Amiel_, whose generous Gallantry, whilst Fame Shall have a Tongue, shall never want a Name. Who, whilst his Pomp his lavish Gold consumes, Moulted his Wings to lend a Throne his Plumes, Whilst an Ungrateful Court he did attend, Too poor to pay, what it had pride to spend. But, _Amiel_ has, alas, the fate to hear, An angry Poet play his Chronicler; A Poet rais'd above Oblivions Shade, By his Recorded Verse Immortal made. But, Sir, his livelier Figure to engrave, With Branches added to the _Bays_ you gave: No Muse could more Heroick Feats rehearse, Had with an equal all-applauding Verse, Great _Davids_ Scepter, and _Sauls_ Javelin prais'd: A Pyramide to his Saint, _Interest_, rais'd. For which Religiously no Change he mist, } From Common-wealths-man up to Royalist: } Nay, would have been his own loath'd thing call'd _Priest_. } Priest, whom with so much Gall he does describe, 'Cause once unworthy thought of _Levies_ Tribe. Near those bright Tow'rs where Art has Wonders done, } Where _Davids_ sight glads the blest Summers Sun; } And at his feet proud _Jordans_ Waters run; } A Cell there stands by Pious Founders rais'd, Both for its Wealth and Learned _Rabbins_ prais'd: To this did an Ambitious Bard aspire, To be no less than Lord of that blest Quire: Till Wisdom deem'd so Sacred a Command, A Prize too great for his unhallow'd Hand. Besides, lewd Fame had told his plighted Vow, To _Laura's_ cooing Love percht on a dropping Bough _Laura_ in faithful Constancy confin'd To _Ethiops_ Envoy, and to all Mankind. _Laura_ though Rotten, yet of Mold Divine; He had all her Cl--ps, and She had all his Coine. Her Wit so far his Purse and Sense could drain, Till every P--x was sweetn'd to a Strain. And if at last his Nature can reform, A weary grown of Loves tumultuous storm, 'Tis Ages Fault, not His; of pow'r bereft, He left not Whoring, but of that was left.