up to the Top.

Since all Improvement was forbid,
What cou'd he do, but what he did?
Nought he diminish'd of the Charge,
But acts _Hell_'s Minister at large.

A _Pair of Adamantine Lungs_,
A _Throat of Brass_, _Fame's hundred Tongues_,
Time out of Mind have been confest,
By _fifty Poets_, at the least,
Too little to count _Hybla's Bees_,
The _Leaves that cloathe the Forest-Trees_;
The _Sands that broider Neptune's Side_,
Or _Waves_ that on his Bosom ride;
The _Grains_ which rich _Sicilia_ yields,
The _Blades_ with which _Spring_ robes the Fields;
The _Stars_ which twinkling on the sight
_Jove_'s _Threshold_ make so glorious bright:
Or (if we may annex to these
_Modern Impossibilities_)
To reckon up the sum of _Knaves_
That crawl on _Earth_, or sleep in _Graves_,
To count the _Prudes_ that crowd to _Pews_,
While their _Thoughts_ ramble to the _Stews_,
_Lords_, whose sole Merit is their _Place_,
_Ladies_, whose Worth's a _painted Face_,
Who find _my Lord_ has lost his _Force_
In _Love_, and sue for a _Divorce_;
Or to abridge, and enter down
The Names of all the _Fools in Town_;
Or number those who _live by Ink_,
And _write_, altho' they cannot _think_;
_Critics_, who judge, but cannot read,
And _praise_, or _censure_--as they're _fee'd_;
Or count _each Bard_ by _Self_ betray'd,
Who thought, when fondled by _his Maid_,
It was _Melpomene_ that smil'd,
And mark'd him for her fav'rite _Child_,
But finds the _Harvest_ of his Lines,
Is to _fast twice_ for _once he dines_.

As well the _Muse_ might one of these
_Poets' Impossibilities_
Assay to do, and speed as well,
As if She should attempt to tell
The _Names_ and _Characters_ of _all_
That on the Name of _Satan_ call,
That preach, and lie, and whine, and cant,
Soldiers for _Hell's Church Militant_;
And use the Head, the Heart, the Hand,
To spread _its Doctrines_ thro' the Land.
_Arithmetic herself_ were dumb,
If task'd with such an endless Sum;
Nor wou'd the _Muse_, tho' one more Line
Wou'd all the Host of _Hell_ entwine,
Bestow another drop of Ink,
To map out an _infernal Sink_--

Thou God of Truth and Love! excuse
The _honest Anger_ of the _Muse_,
Warm in _thy Cause_, while She wou'd pray
That Thou from _Earth_ wou'd'st sweep aw