With such whose Figures shew that squinting Paint, Whence peeps a Mungril _Babylonish Saint_. Thy Soul's Religion's Prop, and Native Grace, _Rome_, (fears its onsets) looking on the place; What Altitude can more exalt thy Praise, Tho best Devotion should thy Trophies raise, And 'tis perhaps from thy Diviner Bliss, That some may fear their Souls are seen amiss. As what so high does Emulation mount, As Greatness when surpass'd on Heaven's Account; And if th' Ambition would in this excel, 'Twas but to be more great in doing well; And must rebate the worst that Fates intend, Whilst Heaven and _England_ is at once thy Friend. This just _Encomium_, tho too brief it be To represent thy least Epitome; And but unto thy larger Figure joyn'd, As small proportions are from great design'd; Tho where a line one worth of thine can speak, It does alone, a Poem's Greatness make; Leaving this _Hero_ to his spotless Fame, (As who besides this Wretch will it blaspheme) Or in a Libels Allegorick Way, Men falsely figur'd, to the world convey, Libels the enormous Forgery of sense, Stamp'd on the brow of human Impudence; The blackest wound of Merit, and the Dart, That secret Envy points against Desert. The lust of Hatred pander'd to the Eye T'allure the World's debauching by a Lie. Th'rancrous Favourite's masquerading Guilt, Imbitt'ring venom where he'd have it spilt. The Courts depression in a fulsom Praise; A Test it's _Ignoramus_ worst conveys, A lump of Falshood's Malice does disperse, Or Toad when crawling on the Feet of Verse. Fame's impious Hireling and mean Reward, The Knave that in his Lines turns up his Card, Who, tho no Rabby, thought in Hebrew wit, He forc'd Allusions can closly fit. To _Jews_ or _English_, much unknown before, He made a _Talmud_ on his Muses score; Though hop'd few Criticks will its _Genius_ carp, So purely Metaphors King _David_'s Harp, And by a soft Encomium, near at hand, Shews _Bathsheba_ Embrac'd throughout the Land. But this Judaick Paraphrastick Sport We'll leave unto the ridling Smile of Court. Good Heav'n! What timeful Pains can Rhymers take, When they'd for Crowds of Men much Pen-plot make? Which long-Beak'd Tales and filch'd Allusions brings, As much like Truth, as 'tis the Woodcock sings. What else could move this Poet to purloin So many _Jews_, to please the _English_ Swine? Or was it that his Brains might next dispense To adapt himself a Royal Evidence? Or that he'd find for _Dugdale_'s Wash some Spell, In stead of once more dipp'd in _Winifred_'s Well; And ope his Budget, like _Pandora_'s Box, Whence Overt-acts more _Protestants_ should Pox, Which might the Joyner's Ghost provoke to rise, And fright such Tales with other _Popish_ Lies? But _Starr's_ or _Ignoramus_'s may not give Those Swearers longer swinge by Oaths to live. A Providence much _English_ Good protects, And sends Testees to Trade for new Effects; Which none of the Long-Robe, 'tis hop'd, can aid, So well by Oaths the Devil's already paid;