« EelmineJätka »
Written at Moor-park, June, 1689.
IRTUE, the greatest of all monarchies !
Till, its first emperor rebellious man
Depos'd from off his seat,
By many a petty lord poffess’d,
who must this land subdue,
Where none ever led the way,
Like the philosopher's stone,
With rules from musty morals brought,
With antique reliques of the dead,
And we, the bubbled fools,
We oddly Plato's paradox make good,
Remembrance is our treasure and our food;
Stale memorandums of the schools :
In that deep grave a book;
Her priests, her train, and followers show
Affcat Affect ill-manner'd pedantry, Rudeness, ill-nature, incivility,
And, fick with dregs of knowledge grown,
Which greedily they swallow down,
(If it may lawful be
(Which since has seiz’d on all the rest)
And Aing our scraps before our door!
You cannot be compar'd to one :
Borrow from every one a grace ;
Their courting a retreat like you,
Your happy frame at once controls
Let not old Romne boast Fabius' fate;
He sav'd his country by delays,
But you by peace.