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But with their quills did all the hurt they could,
And cuff’d the tender chickens from their food;
And much the Buzzard in their cause did stir,
Though naming not the patron, to infer,
With all respect, he was a gross idolater.
But when th’ imperial owner did espy, 1239
That thus they turn'd his grace to villany,
Not suff'ring wrath to discompose his mind,
He strove a temper for th' extremes to find;
So to be just, as he might still be kind;
Then, all maturely weigh'd, pronounc'd a doom,
Of sacred strength for ev'ry age to come.
By this the Doves their wealth and state possess,
No rights infring’d, but licence to oppress:
Such pow'r have they as factious lawyers long
To crowns ascrib'd, that kings can do no wrong:
But since his own domestic birds have try’d 125;
The dire effects of their destructive pride,
He deems that proof a measure to the rest,
Concluding well within his kingly breast, ;
His fowls of Nature too unjustly were opprest.
He therefore makes all birds of ev'ry sect -
Free of his farm, with promise to respect
Their sev'ral kinds alike, and equally protect.
His gracious edict the same franchise yields Q
To all the wild increase of woods and fields, 125e
And who in rocks aloof, and who in steeples builds: S

Crows the like impartial grace affords, i Choughs and Daws, and such republic birds: :ur'd with ample privilege to feed, ich has his district and his bounds decreed; ombin’d in common int' rest with his own, ut not to pass the Pigeon's Rubicon. Here ends the reign of his pretended Dove, All prophesies accomplish'd from above; For Shiloh comes the sceptre to remove. 1260 Reduc’d him from her imperial high abode, Like Dionysius to a private rod, The passive church, that with pretended grace Did her distinctive malk in duty place, Now touch'd, reviles her Maker to his face. What after happen'd is not hard to guess: The small beginnings had a large increase, speace. And arts and wealth succeed, the sacred spoils of 'Tis said the Doves repented, though too late, Become the smiths of their own foolish fate: 1279 Nor did their owner hasten their ill hour, But, sunk in credit, they decreas'd in pow'r; Like snows in warmth, that mildly pass away, * Dissolving in the silence of decay. The Buzzard, not content with equal place, Invites the feather'd Nimrods of his race To hide the thinness of their flock from sight, And altogether make a seeming goodly flight: Dryden.] Qij

But each have sep'rate int’rests of their own;
Two czars are one too many for a throne. 1285
Nor can th' usurper long abstain from food;
Already he has tasted Pigeons' blood,
And may be tempted to his former fare,
When this indulgent lord shall late to heav'n repair.
Bare-benting times and moulting months may come,
When, lagging late, they cannot reach their home;
Or rent in schism (for so their fate decrees)
Like the tumultuous college of the bees,
They fight their quarrel, by themselves oppress'd,
The tyrant smiles below, and waits the falling feast.
Thus did the gentle Hind her fable end, 1291
Nor would the Panther blame it, nor commend;
But, with affected yawnings, at the close
Seem'd to require her natural repose;
For now the streaky light began to peep,
And setting stars admonish’d both to sleep:
The Dame withdrew, and, wishing to her guest,
The peace of Heav'n, betook herself to rest.
Ten thousand angels on her slumbers wait,
With glorious visions of her future state. 1300

All human things are subject to decay, And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey. . This, Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young, Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long; In prose and verse was own'd, without dispute, Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute. This aged prince, now flourishing in peace, And blest with issue of a large increase, Worn out with bus'ness, did at length debate To settle the succession of the state; And, pond'ring which of all his sons was fit To reign, and wage immortal war with Wit, Cry’d, 'Tis resolv’d; for Nature pleads that he Should only rule who most resembles me. Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, Mature in dulness from his tender years; Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity: The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense. 20 Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through, and make a lucid interval; But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day. Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye, And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty;

Thoughtless as monarch oaks that shade the plain,
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley, were but types of thee,
Thou last great prophet of Tautology. 30
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung,
When to King John of Portugal I sung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on Silver Thames didst cut thy way,
With well-tim'd oars before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And big with hymn, commander of an host,
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost.
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well sharpen'd thumb from shore to shore
The Trebies squeak for fear, the Basses roar:
Echoes from Pissing-Alley Shadwell call,
Arid Shadwell they resound from Aston-Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng.
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as Prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand,
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not e'en the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme:

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