Lo, at his honourable feet Fame's bright attendant, Wealth, appears; Blessings with lavish hand she pours, Not Danae's lap could equal treasures boast, He look'd and turn'd his eyes away, Now pomp and grandeur court his head, And slaves in endless order round his table wait: And now they fall, and now they rise, Watch every motion of their Lord, Hang on his lips with most impatient zeal, With swift ambition seize the' unfinish'd word, And the command fulfil. Tir'd with the train that Grandeur hrings, He dropt a tear, and pitied kings: Music descending on a silent cloud, Fruits, and rich wine, and scenes of lawless love, Each with utmost luxury strove To treat their favourite best; But sounding strings, and fruits, and wine, To make his virtue sleep, or lull his soul to rest. He saw the tedious round, and, with a sigh, "In crowds of pleasure, still I find A vacancy within, which sense can ne'er supply. Hence, and begone, ye flattering snares, Ye vulgar charms of eyes and ears, Ye unperforming promises ! Be all my baser passions dead, For animals and boys; Man has a relish more refin'd, Souls are for social bliss design'd, Give me a blessing fit to match my mind, Myrrha appear'd: serene her soul Every Muse, and every grace, His heart recoil'd with sweet surprise, With joys unknown before: His soul, dissolv'd in pleasing pain, And could endure no more. "Enough! (the' impatient hero cries) I seek no more below the skies, TO DAVID POLHILL, ESQ. AN ANSWER TO AN INFAMOUS SATIRE, CALLED, 'ADVICE TO A PAINTER;" Written by a nameless Author, againt King William III. of glorious Memory, 1698. SIR, WHEN you put this satire into my hand, you gave me the occasion of employing my pen to answer so detestable a writing: which might be done much more effectually by your known zeal for the interest of his Majesty, your counsels and your courage employed in the defence of your king and country. And since you provoked me to write, you will accept of these efforts of my loyalty to the best of kings, addressed to one of the most zealous of his subjects, by, SIR, Your most obedient servant, I. W. PART I. AND must the hero, that redeem'd our land, To guard his England from the Irish knife, [name, Why smoke the skies not? Why no thunders roll? O! could my thought but grasp the vast design, And words with infinite ideas join, I'd rouse Apelles from his iron sleep, And bid him trace the warrior o'er the deep. Fierce, how he climbs the mountains of the slain, Then dash the canvass with a flying stroke, Mark him again emerging from the cloud, Now, noble pencil, lead him to our isle: Lust and profaneness dying at his feet, [meet, In sacred volumes; thence the monarch draws Rise, ye old sages of the British isle, On the fair tablet cast a reverend smile, And bless the piece; these statutes are your own, That sway the cottage, and direct the throne; |