Whilst sense of duty into my artless Muse Th' ambition would infuse To mingle with those Nymphs that homage pay, And wait on thine in her triumphant way, Defect of merit checks her forward pride, 70 And makes her dread t' approach thy chariot side; For 'twere at least a rude indecency (If not profane) t' appear At this solemnity, Crown'd with no laurel wreath (as others are); But this we will presume to do, At distance, to attend the show, Officious to gather up The scatter'd bays, if any drop From others' temples, and with those 80 A plain plebeian coronet compose. This, as your livery, she'd wear, to hide Her nakedness, not gratify her pride! Such was the verdant dress Which the Offending Pair did frame Of platted leaves, not to express Their pride i'th' novel garb, but to conceal their shame. N. TATE. [Line: 42 'th'' for 'they' is an instance, good in its badness, of the uglier apostrophation.] [Line: 63 strait] So _both_ edd.: but as often for 'strai_gh_t'.] [Line: 75 'Crown'd with no laurel wreath (as others are)' should be a comfort to the poetaster. For Nahum had only to wait less than twenty years and he _was_ crowned in the very lifetime of the discrowned 'other' Dryden, who wore the wreath at this time, and who meanwhile had done him the enormous honour of admitting him to collaboration in _Absalom and Achitophel_. Tate has other verses addressed to Flatman; see his _Poems_, p. 67.] To my dear Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman, Upon the Publication of his Poems. PINDARIC ODE. I. Within the haunted thicket, where The feather'd choristers are met to play; And celebrate with voices clear, And accents sweet, the praise of May: The ouzel, thrush, and speckled lark, And Philomel, that loves the dawn and dark: These (the inspired throng) In numbers smooth and strong Adorn their noble theme with an immortal song, While woods and vaults, the brook and neighbouring hill, 10 Repeat the varied close and the melodious trill. II. Here feast your ears, but let their eye Wander, and see one of the lesser fry Under a leaf, or on a dancing twig, Ruffle his painted feathers, and look big, Perk up his tail, and hop between The boughs; by moving, only to be seen, Perhaps his troubled breast he prunes, As he doth meditate his tunes: At last (compos'd) his little head he rears, 20 Towards (what he strives to imitate) the spheres; And chirping then begins his best, Falls on to pipe among the rest; Deeming that all's not worth a rush, Without his whistle from the bush. III.