_Envy_ must own he has our _Tongue refin'd_, And manly _Sense_ with tend'rest _Softness_ join'd: His _Verse_ would _Stones_ and _Trees_ with _Soul_ inspire, As did the _Theban_ and the _Thracian_ Lyre: His youthful _Fire_ within, like _Etna, glows_, Tho _Venerable Age_ around his Temples _snows_: If from the _modern_ or the _antient_ Store 640 He _borrows_ ought, he always _pays_ 'em more: So much _improv'd_, each _Thought_, so _fine_ appears, WALLER or OVID scarce durst own 'em _theirs_. The Learned _Goth_ has scowr'd all _Europe_'s Plains, } _France, Spain_, and fruitful _Italy_ he _drains_, } From every Realm and every Language _gains_: } His _Gains_ a _Conquest_ are, and not a _Theft_; He wishes still new _Worlds_ of _Wit_ were left: Thus _haughty Rome_, when, all the _Firm_ surpass'd, Her _Eagles_ found our _moated World_ at last; 650 Touching upon th' _unhospitable_ Coast, _Good Laws_ bestow'd for our _wild Freedom_ lost; With _Arts of Peace_ our stubborn Soil manur'd, And _naked Limbs_ from _Frost_ and _Sun_ secur'd: --But ah' how _dear_ the _Price_ of all we gain! } What _Shoals of Vices_ with 'em cross'd the Main? } What _Pride_, what _Luxury_, a foul, an odious Train? } Who weighs, like _Galcacus_, the _Good_ with _Ill_, Would wish they'd let us been _Barbarians_ still: Such _thankless Pains Ignatian Firebrands_ take 660 An _honest Pagan_ spoil, and a _bad Christian_ make. Blest be kind Heav'n, which wrap'd me in a _Gown_, And drew me early from the _fatal Town_! And blest _Her Name_, to endless Ages blest, Who gave my weary _Muse_ this calm _Retreat_ and _Rest_. True to my God, my Country, and my Friend, } Here, may I Life, not _wholly useless_, spend, } _Steal_ through the World, and _smiling_ meet my _End_! } I envy not _Great Dryden_'s loftier Strain } Of _Arms_ and _Men_ design'd to entertain, } 670 _Princes_ and _Courts_, so I but please the _Plain_: } Nor would I barter _Profit_ for _Delight_, Nor would have _writ like him, like him to write_. If there's _Hereafter_, and a last _Great Day_, What _Fire_'s enough to _purge_ his _Stains_ away? How will he _wish_ each _lewd_ applauded _Line_ } Which makes _Vice pleasing_, and _Damnation shine_, } Had been as _dull_ as honest _Quarles_ or _mine_! } With _sixty Years of Lewdness_ rest content! It mayn't be yet _too late_, O yet _Repent_! 680 Ev'n _Thee_ our _injur'd Altar_ will receive; While yet there's _Hopes_ fly to its _Arms_ and live! So shall for _Thee_ their _Harps_ the _Angels_ string, And the _Returning Prodigal_ shall sing; New _Joys_ through all the _Heav'nly Host_ be shown In _Numbers_ only _sweeter_ than thy _own_. CONGREVE from _Ireland_ wond'ring we receive, }