nto his Wit;
That from his clear Discussions Men may know
He does to wonder other Brains out-do.
Whilst they for Notions search they can't compact,
His _Genius_ fitly stands prepar'd to act.
Admir'd of Man, that in thy Sense alone
So ready dost exalt high Reason's Throne;
That Men abate Resentments to expect
Thou mayst rise Greater, having past Neglect.
A Sacred Method Kings receive from Heaven,
That still does Cherish, when it has Forgiven;
Which from our Princes Soul so largely flows,
That Mercy's Channel with his Greatness goes.
No Arbitrary Whispers him can guide
To swell his Rule beyond its genuine Tide:
Whilst other Kings their rugged Scepters see
Eclips'd in his more soft Felicity;
Whose Goodness can all Stress of State remove,
So fitly own'd the Subjects Fear and Love.
My Verse might here discharge its hasty Flight, }
As Pencils that attempt Immortal Heighth }
Droop in the Colours should convey its Light, }
Did not this Poet's Lines upon me call
For some Reflexions on a Lower Fall;
Where he by Rhyming, a _Judaick_ Sham,
Obtrudes for _Israelites_ some Seeds of _Cham_.
And this Inspexion needs no further go
Than where his Pen does most Indulgent show:
And 'tis no wonder if his _Types_ of Sense
Should stroke such _Figures_ as give down their Pence;
A Crime for which some Poets Lines so stretch,
As on themselves they Metaphor _Jack Ketch_.
Tho small the Varnish is to Humane Name,
Where Cogging Measures rob the truth of Fame.
And more to do his skew'd _Encomiums_ right,
Some Persons speak by him their motly Sight:
Or much like _Hudibras_, on Wits pretence,
Some Lines for Rhyme, and some to gingle Sense.
Who else would _Adriel_, _Jotham_, _Hushai_, fit,
With loathed _Amiell_, for a Court of Wit?
For, as Men Squares of Circles hardly find,
Some think these Measures are as odly joyn'd.
What else could _Adriell_'s sharpness more abuse,
Than headlong dubb'd, to own himself a Muse,
Unless to spread Poetick Honours so
As should a Muse give each St. _George_'s Show?
A Mode of Glory might _Parnassus_ fit,
Tho our Sage Prince knows few he'd Knight for Wit.
And thus this Freak is left upon the File,
Or as 'tis written in this Poet's Stile.
Next, as in Course, to _Jotham_ we'll descend,
Thoughtful it seems which Side he'll next befriend,
As thinking Brains can caper to and fro,
Before they jump into the Box they'd go.
And 'tis a moody Age, as many guess,
When some with busie Fears still forward press;