Scriptorum chorus omnis, amat nemus, et fugit urbe's

Thus , CALMLY did the Antique Poets frame
Felicitie: and gloried in the name
Of Grove-frequenters; thus, old Orpheus sate
By fatall Hebrus: when his suddaine fate
(Convai'd by franticke women) did Surprize
Him, in the flight of Sacred Extasies.
How much unsafe is Solitude? what Joye
Has Groves, or Cities? but Each Equallye
Capable, in Idea. Not the Lire
Which Phebus strung (Phebus was Orpheus Sire)
And gave it him; nor his owne verse, nor voice,
Sweet as his Mother's (for noe other Choice
Might ever equall't) could at all deterre
These possest Beldam's, from the Massacre.
That voice, which taught dispersed Trees to move
Into an orderlie, and well pitch'd Grove,
Stopt headie Currents, and made them run sweet;
Gave centred Rocks a Life, & mountains, feet;
Not voice, nor Harpe, which brought againe to Life
From Hell, Euridice, his ravisht wife;
And did soe Charme Hells-treeple-headed Hound,
Hee could not use one tongue, or tooth, to wound,
Or wonder at our Poet. What nor Hell
Nor Furies durst Attempt, (I Shame to tell)
Women must Act; but women none durst doe
A crime soe impious, soe unequall too;
But Lust & wine, in women can produce
Such monsters onlie; be it their excuse.
The water (yet proud) Sings; (if Fame not Lye)
And runs, to him a Constant Elegie:
Such was the fate of Orpheus. — Calme my verse,
And softer Numbers Spin; whilst I reherse
Titirus, sitting under Beechie Shade;
Pleasing his fancie, in the Joy he made;
For soe he made it his; as what might want
There to delight, or please, his verse did plant.
Here, oft (more pleas'd, then on Augustus Shine)
Hee did enjoy himselfe; and here untwine
The Clewe he twisted there; thus Hee, in groves.
Next, see in-imitable Colin moves
Our Admiration. Hee, poore Swaine, in bare
And thin Set Shades did Sing; whil'st (ah) noe care
Was had of all his Numbers; numbers which,
Had they bene sung of old, who knowes how rich
A Fame, had Crown'd him? Had he lived, when
Phillips Great Son (that prodigie of men)
Spread, like Aurora, in the Easterne light,
Hee had not wish'd a Homer for to write
His Storie, but ev'n Peleus Son had sate
A Step below in Fame, as well as Fate.
But Hee! poor man, in an ungratefull Age
Neglected lived; still borne downe by the Rage
Of Ignorance; for tis an Easier Thing
To make Trees Leape, and Stones selfe-burthens bring
(As once Amphion to the walls of Thaebes)
Then Stop the giddie Clamouring of Pleb's.
Hee poorlie Dyed: (but vertue cannot Dye)
And scarce had got a Bed, in Death to lye:
Had not a noble Heroe made a Roome,
Heed bene an Epitaph, without a Tombe;
For that Hee could not want; whilst verse or witt
Could move a wing, they'd bene obliged to it;
Or Say, the bankrupt Age could none Afford.
Hee left a Stocke, sufficient, on Record.

Let me then, under my owne Shades content,
Admire their Flights. Hee who lives Innocent
Is wise Enough: where Innocence and witt
Combine, what wonders in that brest are mett?
The Trumpets Clangor, nor the ratling drum,
Noises of warre; nor the more troublesome
Rage of the Souldier; nor the golden Spundge
Where Harpies licke the Juice; nor all the plundge
Of Apprehension, shakes, or enters on
The temper of that true Complexion.
Vertue is ever Safe; and wee may See
Loyaltie prized, and depress'd majestie
Enthroned, as glorious as wee whilome have.
These wee may see; if not, the well-met grave
Will shew us more. Hee, who considers that
A Losse, is ignorant to value Fate.

Bring out the Engine quicklie, to undoe
The Partie: triumph in the overthrow
Of Truth and Justice. You the seamles Coat
Have torne; and dipt the Fleece without a Spott
In Cisternes of Profanesse. Ring the Bells!
Y' have done, y' have done the worke. Hee happie dwells
Who more remote, may looke upon the Age
As his owne Mirror; and applye the Rage
Of Tumults to his Passions; Rebells all
To Monarch Reason. These things when I call
Unto my private, then I easilie See
Monarchs are Men. Each man's one Monarchie.

Phlegme, my Complexion, here has plunged me in
A Quick-sand, to disorder the Designe
Of my first Thoughts: and all that I have said
Is but a Ramble, from a Running head,
Perhaps a Rheugme: for tis unnaturall
In the most Sanguine, nere to run at All.
Who knowes Witt, knowes somewhat of madnes Still
(Distempers not, but) tempers the best Quill.
Man in his little world, is more by much
Then the great world; who knowes Him, knowes him Such
A Composition of the same mixt Stuffe,
Which who can temper, but is Wise Enough.