Methinks already, from this chemic flame,
I see a city of more precious mould:
Rich as the town which gives the Indies name, With silver pav'd, and all divine with gold.
Already, labouring with a mighty fate,
She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow. And seems to have renew'd her charter's date, Which Heav'n will to the death of Time allow.
More great than human, now, and more august,
New deified she from her fires does rise;
Her widening streets on new foundations trust,
And, opening, into larger parts she flies.
Before she like some shepherdess did show,
Who sat to bathe her by a river's side;
Not answering to her fame, but rude and low,
Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride.
Now, like a maiden queen, she will behold,
From her high turrets, hourly suitors come:
The East with incense, and the West with gold,
Will stand, like suppliants, to receive her doom.
The silent Thames, her own domestic flood,
Shall bear her vessels, like a sweeping train;
And often wind, as of his mistress proud,
With longing eyes to meet her face again.
The wealthy Tagus, and the wealthier Rhine,
The glory of their towns no more shall boast,
And Seine, that would with Belgian rivers join,
Shall find her lustre stain'd, and traffic lost.
The venturous merchant, who design'd more far, And touches on our hospitable shore,
Charm'd with the splendour of this northern star, Shall here unlade him, and depart no more.
Our powerful navy shall no longer meet
The wealth of France or Holland to invade; The Beauty of this Town, without a fleet, From all the world shall vindicate her trade.
And while this fam'd emporium we prepare,
The British ocean shall such triumphs boast, That those who now disdain our trade to share, Shall rob, like pirates, on our wealthy coast.
Already we have conquer'd half the war,
And the less dangerous part is left behind; Our trouble now is but to make them dare, And not so great to vanquish as to find.
Thus to the eastern wealth through storms we go,
But now the Cape once doubled, fear no more
A constant trade-wind will securely blow,
And gently lay us on the spicy shore,
BY MR. DRYDEN AND THE EARL OF MULGRAVE.
How dull and how insensible a beast
Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest!
Philosophers and poets vainly strove,
In every age, the lumpish mass to move;
But those were pedants, when compar'd with these,
Who know not only to instruet, but please.
Poets alone found the delightful way
Mysterious morals gently to convey
In charming numbers; so that as men grew
Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wiser too.
Satire has always shone among the rest,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
'To tell men freely of their foulest faults,
To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts.
In satire, too, the wise took different ways,
To each deserving its peculiar praise.
Some did all folly with just sharpness blame,
Whilst others laugh'd and scorn'd 'em into shame.
But of these two the last succeeded best,
As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest.
Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides,
And censure those who censure all besides,
In other things they justly are preferr'd ;
In this alone, methinks, the ancients err'd;
Against the grossest follies they declaim;
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easier than such blots to hit,
And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit:
Besides, 'tis labour lost; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Aston teach?
'Tis being devout at play, wise at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find,
Which lie obscurely in the wisest mind;
That little speck, which all the rest does spoil,
To wash off that would be a noble toil:
Beyond the loase-writ libels of this age,
Or the forc'd scenes of our declining stage;
Above all censure, too, each little wit
Will be so glad to see the greater hit,
Who judging better, though concern'd the most,
Of such correction will have cause to boast.
In such a satire all would seek a share,
And every fool will fancy he is there.
Old story-tellers, too, must pine and die,
To see their antiquated wit laid by;
Like her who miss'd her name in a lampoon,
And griev'd to find herself decay'd so soon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here,
Nor the dull train of dancing sparks appear,
Nor fluttering officers who never fight;
Of such a wretched rabble who would write?
Much less half wits: that's more against our rules
For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as silly as Dunbar,
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr'?
Probably Sir Carr Scrope.
The cunning courtier should be slighted too,
Who with cull knavery makes so much ado;
Till the shrewd fool, by thriving too, too fast,
Like Esop's fox, becomes a prey at last.
Nor shall the royal mistresses be nam'd,
Too ugly, or too easy, to be blam'd;
With whom each rhyming fool keeps such a pother,
They are as common that way as the other:
Yet sauntering Charles, between his beastly brace
Meets with dissembling still in either place,
Affected humour, or a painted face.
In loyal libels we have often told him
How one has jilted him, the other sold him;
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep;
But who can rail so long as he can sleep?
Was ever prince by two at once misled;
False, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred?
Earnly, and Aylesbury, with all that race
Of busy blockheads, shall have here no place;
At council set, as foils on Dorset's score,
To make that great false jewel shine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wise,
Only for taking pains and telling lies.
But there's no meddling with such nauseous men;
Their very names have tir'd my lazy pen :
'Tis time to quit their company, and choose
Some fitter subject for a sharper muse.
First, let's behold the merriest man alive
Against his careless genius vainly strive;
Quit his dear ease, some deep design to lay
'Gainst a set time, and then forget the day:
? Probably Sir John Earnly, chancellor of the exchequer in the latter part of the reign of Charles II.
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