_Quanto rectius hoc, quam tristi lœdere versu Pantolabum scurram, Nomentanumq. Nepotem?_ HOR. _----Cadet et Repheus justissimus unus Qui fuit in Teucris, et servantissimus æqui._ ÆN. Lib. ii. THE PREFACE. _1699. 13. June._ ... And though I am not an author confirmed enough to carry my copies about to gentlemen’s chambers, in order to pick up amendments and corrections, as the practice is now of our most received writers; yet I must, in justice to myself, and the gentleman who has favoured me with its perusal, tell the world, it had been much worse had not Mr Dryden acquainted me with its faults. Nothing indeed was so displeasing to him, as what was pleasing to myself, viz. his own commendations: and if it pleases the world, the reader has no one to thank but so distinguishing a judgment who occasioned it. I might here lay hold of the opportunity of returning the obliging compliments he sent me by the person who brought the papers to him before they were printed; but I may chance to call his judgement in question by it, which I always accounted infallible, but in his kind thoughts of me; and therefore refer the reader to the poem, in order to see whether he’ll be so good natured as to join his opinion with the compliment the gentleman aforesaid has honoured me with. POEM. But thou, great bard, whose hoary merits claim The laureat’s place, without the laureat’s name; Whose learned brows, encircled by the bays, Bespeak their owner’s, and their giver’s praise; Thou, Dryden, should’st our loss alone relate, And heroes mourn, who heroes canst create. Amidst thy verse the wife already shines, And owes her virtues, what she owes thy lines. Down from above the saint our sorrows views, And feels a second heaven in thy muse; Whose verse as lasting as her fame shall be, While thou shall live by her, and she by thee. Oh! let the same immortal numbers tell, How just the husband lived, and how he fell; What vows, when living, for his life were made; What floods of tears at his decease were paid; And since their deathless virtues were the same, Equal in worth, alike should be their fame. But thou, withdrawn from us, and public cares, Flatter’st thy age, and feed’st thy growing years; Supine, unmoved, regardless of our cries, Thou mind’st not where thy noble patron lies: Wrapt in death’s icy arms, within his urn, Behold him sleeping, and, beholding, mourn: Speechless that tongue for wholesome counsels famed, And without sight those eyes for lust unblamed; Bereaved of motion are those hands which gave Alms to the needy, did the needy crave. Ah! such a sight, and such a man divine, Does only call for such a hand as thine! Great is the task, and worthy is thy pen; The best of bards should sing the best of men. Awake, arise from thy lethargic state,