See God descending in thy human frame;
Th' offending suff'ring in th' offender's name;
All thy misdeeds to him imputed see,
And all his righteousness devolv'd on thee.

For, granting we have sinn'd, and that th' offence

Of man is made against Omnipotence,

A style so large as not this book can claim,
Nor aught that bears reveal'd religion's name.
'Tis said, the sound of a Messiah's birth
Is gone through all the habitable earth;
But still that text must be confin'd alone
To what was then inhabited and known :
And what provisions could from thence accrue

stood, Which must, if we want cure, and Heav'n be Let all records of will reveal'd be shown; With scripture all in equal balance thrown, And our one sacred book will be that one.

[pare

Proof needs not here: for whether we com-
That impious idle superstitious ware
Of rites, lustrations, off'rings, which before,
In various ages, various countries bore,
With christian faith and virtues; we shall find
None answ'ring the great ends of human kind,
But this one rule of life, that shows us best
How God may be appeas'd, and mortals blest.
Whether from length of time its worth we
draw,

The word is scarce more ancient than the law;
Heaven's early care prescrib'd for ev'ry age;
First in the soul, and after in the page.
Or whether more abstractedly we look,
Or on the writers, or the written book,
Whence, but from Heav'n, could men unskill'd
in arts,

In sev'ral ages born, in sev'ral parts,
Weave such agreeing truths? or how, or why,
Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie?
Unask'd their pains, ungrateful their advice,
Starving their gain, and martyrdom their price.
If on the book itself we cast our view,
Concurrent heathens prove the story true;
The doctrine, miracles; which must convince,
For Heav'n in them appeals to human sense;
And, though they prove not, they confirm the

cause,

When what is taught agrees with nature's laws.
Then for the style, majestic and divine,
It speaks no less than God in ev'ry line;
Commanding words; whose force is still the

same

As the first fiat that produc'd our frame.
All faiths beside or did by arms ascend,
Or, since indulg'd, has made mankind their
friend;

This only doctrine does our lusts oppose,
Unfed by nature's soil, in which it grows;
Cross to our int'rests, curbing sense and sin,
Oppress'd without, and undermin'd within;
It thrives through pain; its own tormentors tires;
And with a stubborn patience still aspires.

Tili sin spread once again the shades of night:
What's that to these, who never saw the light?
Of all objections this indeed is chief
To startle reason, stagger frail belief:
We grant, 'tis true, that Heav'n from human

sense

Has hid the secret paths of Providence :
But boundless wisdom, boundless mercy, may
Find, e'en for those bewilder'd souls, a way;
If from his nature foes may pity claim,
Much more may strangers who ne'er heard his

name:

And though no name be for salvation known,
But that of his eternal Son's alone;
Who knows how far transcending goodness can
Extend the merits of that Son to man?
Who knows what reasons may his mercy lead;
Or ignorance invincible
may plead?
Not only charity bids hope the best,
But more the great apostle has express'd :

That if the Gentiles, whom no law inspir'd,
By nature did what was by law requir'd,
They, who the written rule had never known,
Were to themselves both rule and law alone:
To nature's plain indictment they shall plead;
And by their conscience be condemn'd or
freed."

Most righteous doom! because a rule reveal'd Is none to those from whom it was conceal'd. Then those who follow'd reason's dictates right, Liv'd up, and lifted high their natʼral light; With Socrates may see their Maker's face, While thousand rubric-martyrs want a place.

Nor does it balk my charity, to find Th' Egyptian bishop of another mind; For though his creed eternal truth contains, 'Tis hard for man to doom to endless pains All who believ'd not all his zeal requir'd; Unless he first could prove he was inspir'd. Then let us either think he meant to say, This faith, where publish'd, was the only way; Or else conclude that, Arius to confute, The good old man, too cager in dispute, Flew high; and as his christian fury rose, Damn'd all for heretics who durst oppose.

Thus far my charity this path has tried; A much unskilful, but well-meaning guide: Yet what they are, e'en these crude thoughts were bred,

By reading that which better thou hast read. Thy matchless author's work; which thou my friend,

By well translating, better dost commend:
Those youthful hours, which of thy equals, most
In toys have squander'd, or in vice have lost;
Those hours hast thou to nobler use employ'd,
And the severe delights of truth enjoy'd."
Witness this weighty book, in which appears
The crabbed toil of many thoughtful years,
Spent by thy author, in the sifting care
Of rabbins' old sophisticated ware,
From gold divine; which he who well can sort,
May afterwards make algebra a sport.
A treasure, which if country curates buy,
They Junius and Tremellius may defy;
Save pains in various readings and translations;
And without Hebrew, make most learn'd quo-
tations.

A work so full with various learning fraught,
So nicely ponder'd, yet so strongly wrought,
As nature's height and art's last hand requir'd,
As much as man could compass, uninspir'd;
Where we may see what errors have been made
Both in the copier's and translator's trade;
How Jewish, Popish int'rests have prevail'd,
And where infallibility has fail'd.

For some, who have his secret meaning
guess'd,

Have found our author not too much a priest:
For fashion's sake, he seems to have recourse
To pope, and councils, and tradition's force:
But he that old traditions could subdue,
Could not but find the weakness of the new;
If scripture, though deriv'd from heav'nly birth,
Has been but carelessly preserv'd on earth;
If God's own people, who of God before
Knew what we know, and had been promis'd

If written words from time are not secur'd, How can we think have oral sounds endur'd? Which thus transmitted, if one mouth has fail'd,

Immortal lyes on ages are entail'd :

Or christian faith can have no certain ground, Or truth in church-tradition must be found.

Such an omniscient church we wish indeed; 'Twere worth both Testaments; cast in the creed:

But if this mother be a guide so sure,
As can all doubts resolve, and truth secure;
Then her infallibility, as well
Where copies are corrupt or lame, can tell;
Restore lost canons with as little pains,
As truly explicate what still remains:
Which yet no council dare pretend to do,
Unless, like Esdras, they could write it new:
Strange confidence still to interpret true.
Yet not be sure that all they have explain'd
Is in the blest original contain'd.
More safe, and much more modest, 'tis to say,
God would not leave mankind without a way:
And that the scriptures, though not ev'ry where
Free from corruption, or entire, or clear,
Are uncorrupt, sufficient, clear, entire,
In all things which our needful faith require.
If others in the same glass better see,
'Tis for themselves they look, but not for me:
For my salvation must its doom receive,
Not from what others, but what I believe.
Must all tradition then be set aside?
This to affirm, were ignorance and pride.
Are there not many points, some needful sure
To saving faith, that scripture leaves obscure?
Which ev'ry sect will wrest a sev'ral way;
For what one sect interprets, all sects may:
We hold, and say we prove from scripture
plain,

That Christ is God; the bold Socinian
From the same scripture urges he's but man.
Now what appeal can end th' important suit?
Both parts taik loudly, but the rule is mute.

Shall I speak plain, and in a nation free,
Assume an honest layman's liberty?
I think, according to my little skill,
To my own mother-church submitting still,
That many have been sav'd, and many may,
Who never heard this question brought in play.
Th' unletter'd Christian, who believes in gross,
Plods on to Heav'n, and ne'er is at a loss;
For the strait gate would be made straiter yet,
Were none admitted there but men of wit.
The few by nature form'd, with learning
fraught,

Born to instruct, as others to be taught,
Must study well the sacred page; and see
Which doctrine, this or that, does best agree
With the whole tenor of the work divine,
And plainliest points to Heav'n's reveal'd
design:

Which exposition flows from genuine sense,

plain,

If we consider int'rest, church, and gain.

O but, says one, tradition set aside, Where can we hope for an unerring guide? For since th' original scripture has been lost, All copies disagreeing, maim'd the most;

Not that tradition's parts are useless here;
When gen'ral, old, disint'rested, and clear:
That ancient fathers thus expound the page,
Gives truth the rev'rend majesty of age;
Confirms its force by 'biding ev'ry test ;
For best authorities next rules are best.

And still the nearer to the spring we go,
More limpid, more unsoil'd, the waters flow.
Thus first traditions were a proof alone,
Could we be certain, such they were, so known;
But since some flaws in long descent may be,
They make not truth, but probability.
Een Arius and Pelagius durst provoke
To what the centuries preceding spoke.
Such diff'rence is there in an oft told tale:
But truth by its own sinews will prevail.
Tradition written therefore more commends
Authority, than what from voice descends:
And this, as perfect as its kind can be,
Rolls down to us the sacred history;
Which, from the universal church receiv'd,
Is tried, and after for itself believ'd.

The partial Papists would infer from hence Their church, in last resort, should judge the

sense.

But first they would assume, with wondrous art, Themselves to be the whole, who are but part Of that vast frame, the church; yet grant they

were

The handers-down, can they from thence infer
A right t' interpret? or would they alone,
Who brought the present, claim it for their

own?

The book's a common largess to mankind;
Not more for them than ev'ry man design'd:
The welcome news is in the letter found;
The carrier's not commission'd to expound.
It speaks itself, and what it does contain,
In all things needful to be known, is plain.
In times o'ergrown with rust and ignorance,
A gainful trade their clergy did advance;
When want of learning kept the laymen low,
And none but priests were authoriz'd to know:
When what small knowledge was, in them did
dwell;

And he a god who could but read and spell;
The mother-church did mightily prevail;
She parcel'd out the Bible by retail:

But still expounded what she sold or gave,
To keep it in her pow'r to damn or save.
Scripture was scarce, and, as the market went,
Poor laymen took salvation on content;
As needy men take money good or bad:
God's word they had not, but the priest's they
had.

[well,

Yet whate'er false conveyances they made,
The lawyer still was certain to be paid.
In those dark times, they learn'd their knack so
That by long use they grew infallible.
At last, a knowing age began t' inquire
If they the book or that did them inspire:
And, making narrower search, they found,
though late,
[estate:
That what they thought the priest's, was their
Taught by the will produc'd, the written word,
How long they had been cheated on record.
Then ev'ry man who saw the title fair,
Claim'd a child's part, and put in for a share;
Consulted soberly his private good,
And sav'd himself as cheap as e'er he could.

'Tis true, my friend, and far be flatt'ry hence, This good had full as bad a consequence: The book thus put in ev'ry vulgar hand, Which each presum'd he best could understand,

The common rule was made the common prey,
And at the mercy of the rabble lay.
The tender page with horny fists was gall'd;
And he was gifted most that loudest bawl'd:
The spirit gave the doctoral degree:
And ev'ry member of a company

Was of his trade and of the Bible free.
Plain truths enough for needful use they found;
But men would still be itching to expound :
Each was ambitious of th' obscurest place,
No measure ta'en from knowledge, ali from
grace.

Study and pains were now no more their care;
Texts were explain'd by fasting and by pray'r:
This was the fruit the private spirit brought;
Occasion'd by great zeal and little thought;
While crowds unlearn'd, with rude devotion

warm,

About the sacred viands buz and swarm.
The fly-blown text creates a crawling brood;
And turns to maggots what was meant for food.
A thousand daily sects rise up and die;
A thousand more the perish'd race supply:
So all we make of Heaven's discover'd will,
Is not to have it, or to use it ill.
The danger's much the same; on sev'ral shelves
If others wreck us, or we wreck ourselves.

What then remains, but, waving each extreme,
The tides of ignorance and pride to stem?
Neither so rich a treasure to forego;
Nor proudly seek beyond our pow'r to know:
Faith is not built on disquisitions vain; –
The things we must believe are few and plain.
But since men will believe more than they
need,

And ev'ry man will make himself a creed,
In doubtful questions, 'tis the safest way
To learn what unsuspected ancients say;
For 'tis not likely we should higher soar
In search of Heav'n than all the church before;
Nor can we be deceiv'd, unless we see
The scripture and the fathers disagree.
If after all, they stand suspected still,
For no man's faith depends upon his will;
'Tis some relief, that points not clearly known,
Without much hazard may be let alone;
And, after hearing what our church can say,
If still our reason runs another way,
That private reason 'tis more just to curb,
Than by disputes the public peace disturb;
For points obscure are of small use to learn ;
But common quiet is mankind's concern.

Thus have I made my own opinions clear;
Yet neither praise expect, nor censure fear;
And this unpolish'd rugged verse I chose,
As fittest for discourse, and nearest prose;
For, while from sacred truth I do not swerve,
Tom Sternhold's or Tom Shadwell's rhymes
will serve.

$ 28. Mac Flecknoe. Dryden. 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 bless'd with issue of a large increase;
Worn out with business, 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;
Cried, Tis resolv'd; for Nature pleads, that he
Should only rule who most resenibles me.
Sh-, alone, my perfect image bears,
Mature in dullness from his tender years;
Sh-, alone, of all my sons, is he,
Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity.
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence;
But Sh never deviates into sense.
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
Strike through, and make a lucid interval;
But Sh's genuine night admits no ray;
His rising fogs prevail upon the day.
Besides, his goodly fabric fills the
And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty;
Thoughtless as monarch oaks that shade the
plain,

eye,

And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou last great prophet of Tautology.
E'en 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 of that glorious day,
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy

way,

With well-tin'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 toss'd. Methinks I see the new Arion sail,

The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well shapen'd thumb, from shore to shore
The trebles squeak for fear, the basses roar :
Echoes from Pissing-Alley Sh- call,
And Sh- 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 :
Though they in number as in sense excel;
So just, so like Tautology they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore
The lute and sword which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.

Here stopt the good old sire, and wept for joy,
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,
That for anointed dullness he was made.
Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind
(The fair Augusta, much to fears inclin'd)
An ancient fabric, rais'd t' inform the sight,
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight:
A watch-tow'r once: but now, so fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains:
From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,
Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets
keep,

And undisturb'd by watch, in silence sleep:
Near these, a nursery erects its head, [bred:
Where queens are form'd, and future heroes
Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry,
Where infant punks their tender voices try,
And little Maximins the gods defy.
Great Fletcher never treads the buskins here,
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear;
But gentle Simpkin just reception finds,
Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds:
Pure clinches the suburbian Muse affords,
And Panton waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously design'd his Sh's throne:
For ancient Decker prophesied, long since,
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,
Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense :
To whom true dullness should some Psyches

owe,

But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;
Humorists and Hypocrites it should produce,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.
Now empress Fame had publish'd the renown
Of Sh's coronation through the town.
Rous'd by report of Fame, the nations meet,
From near Bun-hill and distant Watling-street;
No Persian carpets spread th' imperial way,
But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay:
From dusty shops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pyes, and relics of the bum.
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay;
But loads of Sh almost choak'd the way.
Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepar'd,"
And H-n was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majesty appear'd,
High on the throne of his own labors rear'd,
At his right hand, our young Ascanius sat,
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state.
His brows, thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,
And lambent Dullness play'd around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,
Sworn by his sire a mortal foe to Rome;
So Sh swore, nor should his vow be vain,
That he till death, true dullness would main-
tain,

And, in his father's right and realm's defence,
Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with

sense.

The king himself the sacred unction made, As king by office, and as priest by trade