live. 
  Through you, the Danes, their short dominion lost,
  A longer conquest than the Saxons boast. 
  Stonehenge, once thought a temple, you have found
  A throne, where kings, our earthly gods, were crown’d;
  Where by their wondering subjects they were seen,
  Joy’d with their stature, and their princely mien. 50
  Our sovereign here above the rest might stand,
  And here be chose again to rule the land.

    These ruins[10] shelter’d once his sacred head,
  When he from Worcester’s fatal battle fled;
  Watch’d by the genius of this royal place,
  And mighty visions of the Danish race. 
  His refuge then was for a temple shown: 
  But, he restored, ’tis now become a throne.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: 

[Footnote 6:  ‘Treatise of Stonehenge:’  Charleton wrote a book proving, against Inigo Jones, that Stonehenge was built by the Danes.]

[Footnote 7:  ‘Gilbert:’  Dr William Gilbert, a physician both to Queen Elizabeth and King James, and author of a treatise on the magnet.]

[Footnote 8:  ‘Harvey:’  discoverer of the circulation of the blood.]

[Footnote 9:  ‘Ent:’  a physician of the day.]

[Footnote 10:  ‘These ruins,’ &c.:  in the dedication of this book to Charles II. is the following passage, which gave occasion to the last six lines of this poem:—­’I have had the honour to hear from your majesty’s own mouth, that you were pleased to visit this monument, and entertain yourself with the delightful view thereof, after the defeat of your army at Worcester.’]

* * * * *

EPISTLE III.

TO THE LADY CASTLEMAIN,[11] UPON HER ENCOURAGING HIS FIRST PLAY.

As seamen, shipwreck’d on some happy shore,
Discover wealth in lands unknown before;
And, what their art had labour’d long in vain,
By their misfortunes happily obtain: 
So my much-envied Muse, by storms long tost,
Is thrown upon your hospitable coast,
And finds more favour by her ill success,
Than she could hope for by her happiness. 
Once Cato’s virtue did the gods oppose;
While they the victor, he the vanquish’d chose:  10
But you have done what Cato could not do,
To choose the vanquish’d, and restore him too. 
Let others triumph still, and gain their cause
By their deserts, or by the world’s applause;
Let merit crowns, and justice laurels give,
But let me happy by your pity live. 
True poets empty fame and praise despise;
Fame is the trumpet, but your smile the prize. 
You sit above, and see vain men below
Contend for what you only can bestow:  20
But those great actions others do by chance,
Are, like your beauty, your inheritance;