This Noble Person, the credit of the _Irish_ Nobility for Wit and ingenious Parts, and who had the command of a smooth Stile, both in Prose and Verse; in which last he hath written several Dramatick Histories, as _Mustapha_, _Edward_ the Third, _Henry_ the Fifth, and _Tryphon_, all of them with good success and applause, as writing after the French way of Rhyme, now of late very much in Fashion. * * * * * _THOMAS HOBBS_ of _Malmsbury_. This noted Person, who gave occasion for so many Pens to band against him, is of the more consideration, for what he hath either judged or writ in Poetry; but his _Leviathan_, which he wrote in Prose, caused the Pen of a no less than a learned Bishop to write against him. He wrote a Preface to _Davenant's Gondibert_, where no wonder if Complement and friendly Compliance do a little byass and over-sway Judgment. His Latin Poem _De Mirabilibus Pexi_, wanteth not due Commendation. After many bustles in the world, he sequestred himself wholly to _Malmsbury_, where he died better inform'd (as I have heard) of the Deity, than in the former part of his life he seemeth to have been. * * * * * Earl of _ROCHESTER_. This Earl for Poetical Wit, was accounted the chief of his time; his Numbers flowing with so smooth and accute a Strain, that had they been all confined within the bounds of Modesty, we might well affirm they were unparallel'd; yet was not his Muse altogether so loose, but that with his Mirth he mixed Seriousness, and had a knack at once to tickle the Fancy, and inform the Judgement. Take a taste of the fluency of his Muse, in the Poem which he wrote _in Defence of Satyr_. When _Shakespeare_, _Johnson_, _Fletcher_ rul'd the Stage, They took so bold a freedom with the Age, That there was scarce a Knave, or Fool in Town, Of any note, but had his Picture shown; And (without doubt) tho some it may offend. Nothing helps more than Satyr, to amend Ill Manners, or is trulier Vertues Friend. Princes may Laws ordain, Priests gravely preach, But Poets most successfully will teach. For as the Passing-Bell frights from his meat The greedy Sick-man, that too much wou'd eat; So when a Vice ridiculous is made, Our Neighbours Shame keeps us from growing bad. But wholsom Remedies few Palats please, Men rather love what flatters their Disease. Pimps, Parasites, Buffoons, and all the Crew That under Friendship's name weak man undo; Find their false service kindlier understood, Than such as tell bold Truths to do us good. Look where you will, and you shall hardly find A man without some sickness of the Mind. In vain we wise wou'd seem, while every Lust Whisks us about, as Whirlwinds do the Dust. Here for some needless gain a Wretch is hurld From Pole to Pole, and slav'd about the World; While the reward of all his pains and cares, Ends in that despicable thing, his Heir.