To this did an Ambitious Bard aspire,
To be no less than Lord of that blest Quire:
Till Wisdom deem'd so Sacred a Command,
A Prize too great for his unhallow'd Hand.
Besides, lewd Fame had told his plighted Vow,
To _Laura's_ cooing Love percht on a dropping Bough
_Laura_ in faithful Constancy confin'd
To _Ethiops_ Envoy, and to all Mankind.
_Laura_ though Rotten, yet of Mold Divine;
He had all her Cl--ps, and She had all his Coine.
Her Wit so far his Purse and Sense could drain,
Till every P--x was sweetn'd to a Strain.
And if at last his Nature can reform,
A weary grown of Loves tumultuous storm,
'Tis Ages Fault, not His; of pow'r bereft,
He left not Whoring, but of that was left.

But wandring Muse bear up thy flagging Wing:
To thy more glorious Theme return, and sing
Brave _Jothams_ Worth, Impartial, Great, and Just,
Of unbrib'd Faith, and of unshaken Trust:
Once _Geshurs_ Lord, their Throne so nobly fill'd,
As if to th'borrow'd Scepter that he held,
Th'inspiring _David_ yet more generous grew,
And lent him his Imperial _Genius_ too.
Nor has he worn the Royal Image more
In _Israels_ Viceroy, than Embassador:
Witness his Gallantry that resolute hour,
When to uphold the Sacred Pride of Pow'r,
His stubborn Flags from the _Sydonian_ shore,