the woods. 
     Oh, mayst thou still the noble task prolong,
  Nor age nor sickness interrupt thy song! 
  Then may we wondering read, how human limbs
  Have watered kingdoms, and dissolved in streams;
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  Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mould
  Turned yellow by degrees, and ripened into gold: 
  How some in feathers, or a ragged hide,
  Have lived a second life, and different natures tried. 
  Then will thy Ovid, thus transformed, reveal
  A nobler change than he himself can tell.

Mag.  Coll.  Oxon, June 2, 1693. 
  The Author’s age, 22.

A POEM TO HIS MAJESTY,[2] PRESENTED TO THE LORD KEEPER.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR JOHN SOMERS,

LOKD KEEPER OF THE GREAT SEAL.

  If yet your thoughts are loose from state affairs,
  Nor feel the burden of a kingdom’s cares,
  If yet your time and actions are your own,
  Receive the present of a Muse unknown: 
  A Muse that in adventurous numbers sings
  The rout of armies, and the fall of kings,
  Britain advanced, and Europe’s peace restored,
  By Somers’ counsels, and by Nassau’s sword. 
     To you, my lord, these daring thoughts belong,
  Who helped to raise the subject of my song;
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  To you the hero of my verse reveals
  His great designs; to you in council tells
  His inmost thoughts, determining the doom
  Of towns unstormed, and battles yet to come. 
  And well could you, in your immortal strains,
  Describe his conduct, and reward his pains: 
  But since the state has all your cares engross’d,
  And poetry in higher thoughts is lost,
  Attend to what a lesser Muse indites,
  Pardon her faults and countenance her flights.
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     On you, my lord, with anxious fear I wait,
  And from your judgment must expect my fate,
  Who, free from vulgar passions, are above
  Degrading envy, or misguided love;
  If you, well pleased, shall smile upon my lays,
  Secure of fame, my voice I’ll boldly raise;
  For next to what you write, is what you praise.

TO THE KING.

  When now the business of the field is o’er,
  The trumpets sleep, and cannons cease to roar;
  When every dismal echo is decay’d,
  And all the thunder of the battle laid;
  Attend, auspicious prince, and let the Muse
  In humble accents milder thoughts infuse. 
     Others, in bold prophetic numbers skill’d,
  Set thee in arms, and led thee to the field;
  My Muse, expecting, on the British strand
  Waits thy return, and welcomes thee to land: 
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  She oft has seen thee pressing on the foe,
  When Europe was concerned in every blow;
  But durst not in heroic strains rejoice; is
  The trumpets, drums, and cannons drowned her voice: