Not like old Adam stinted in his Choice,
But Lord of all the spacious Paradise.
Those Foes to Virtue, Fortune, and Mankind,
Favouring his Fame, once to do Justice join’d;
No carping Critick interrupts his Praise,
No Rival strives, but for a second Place:
No Want constrain’d, the Writer’s usual Fate,
A Poet, with a plentiful Estate;
The first of Mortals, who before the Tomb
Struck that pernicious Monster, Envy, dumb;
Malice and Pride, those Savages, disarm’d;
Not Orpheus with such pow’rful Magick charm’d.
Scarce in the Grave can we allow him more
Than, Living, we agreed to give before.
His noble Muse employ’d her gen’rous Rage
In crowning Virtue, scorning to engage
The Vice and Follies of an impious Age:
No Satyr lurks within this Hallow’d Ground,
But Nymphs and Heroin’s, Kings and Gods abound,
Glory, and Arms, and Loves, is all the Sound:
His Eden with no Serpent is defil’d,
But all is gay, delicious all, and mild.
Mistaken Men his Muse of Flatt’ry blame,
Adorning twice an impious Tyrant’s Name:
We
