'Twas but to be more great in doing well;
And must rebate the worst that Fates intend,
Whilst Heaven and _England_ is at once thy Friend.
This just _Encomium_, tho too brief it be
To represent thy least Epitome;
And but unto thy larger Figure joyn'd,
As small proportions are from great design'd;
Tho where a line one worth of thine can speak,
It does alone, a Poem's Greatness make;
Leaving this _Hero_ to his spotless Fame,
(As who besides this Wretch will it blaspheme)
Or in a Libels Allegorick Way,
Men falsely figur'd, to the world convey,
Libels the enormous Forgery of sense,
Stamp'd on the brow of human Impudence;
The blackest wound of Merit, and the Dart,
That secret Envy points against Desert.
The lust of Hatred pander'd to the Eye
T'allure the World's debauching by a Lie.
Th'rancrous Favourite's masquerading Guilt,
Imbitt'ring venom where he'd have it spilt.
The Courts depression in a fulsom Praise;
A Test it's _Ignoramus_ worst conveys,
A lump of Falshood's Malice does disperse,
Or Toad when crawling on the Feet of Verse.
Fame's impious Hireling and mean Reward,
The Knave that in his Lines turns up his Card,
Who, tho no Rabby, thought in Hebrew wit,
He forc'd Allusions can closly fit.
To _Jews_ or _English_, much unknown before,