The address of John Dryden, laureat to His Highness, the Prince of Orange Shadwell, Thomas, 1642?-1692. 1689 Approx. 7 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 5 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A26387 Wing A544A ESTC R10420 11675009 ocm 11675009 48085 This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission. Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A26387) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 48085) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 3:41) The address of John Dryden, laureat to His Highness, the Prince of Orange Shadwell, Thomas, 1642?-1692. Dryden, John, 1631-1700. [2], 6 p. Printed, and are to be sold by Randal Taylor ..., London : 1689. A satire in verse. Attributed to Thomas Shadwell. Cf. NUC pre-1956. Reproduction of original in Huntington Library. Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford. Re-processed by University of Nebraska-Lincoln and Northwestern, with changes to facilitate morpho-syntactic tagging. Gap elements of known extent have been transformed into placeholder characters or elements to simplify the filling in of gaps by user contributors. 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Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements). Keying and markup guidelines are available at the Text Creation Partnership web site . eng 2002-07 TCP Assigned for keying and markup 2002-09 Aptara Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2002-10 Chris Scherer Sampled and proofread 2002-10 Chris Scherer Text and markup reviewed and edited 2002-12 pfs Batch review (QC) and XML conversion THE ADDRESS OF John Dryden , LAUREAT TO HIS HIGHNESS THE Prince of Orange . LONDON , Printed , and are to be Sold by Randal Taylor , near Stationers-Hall . 1689. THE ADDRESS OF John Dryden , LAUREAT TO HIS HIGHNESS THE Prince of Orange . IN all the Hosannas , our whole World's applause , Illustrious Champion of our Church and Laws , Accept , great Nassau , from unworthy me , Amongst the adoring Crowd , a bended Knee ; Nor scruple , Sir , to hear my Ecchoing Lyre , Strung , tun'd , and joyn'd to th' Universal Quire : For my suspected Mouth thy Glories told , A known Out-lyer from the English Fold , Rome's Votary , the Protestants sworn Foe , Rome my Religion half an hour ago ▪ My Roman Dagon's by thy Arm o'rethrown , And now my Prostituted Soul's thy own : Thy Glory could convert that Infidel That had whole Ages stood immovable No wonder then thou could'st Affections sway In tender Breasts , like mine , such plyant Clay , As cou'd even bear new moulding every day ; Nor doubt thy Convert true , I who cou'd raise Immortal Trophies , even to Cromwell's Praise ; I who my Muses Infant Quill could fledge , With high-sung Murder , Treason , Sacriledge . A Martyr'd Monarch and an inslav'd Nation , A Kingdoms shame the whole Worlds Execration , By me translated even to a Constellation . If thus all this I cou'd unblushing write , Fear not that Pen that shall thy Praise indite ▪ When High-born Blood my Adoration draws , Exalted Glory and unblemish'd Cause : A Theme so all Divine my Muse shall wing , What is 't for thee , great Prince , I will not sing ? No Bounds shall stop my Pegasean flight , He spot my Hind , and make my Panther white . Against the Seven proud Hills I 'le Muster all My Keen Poetick Rage , and Rhime with all The Vengeance of a Second Hannibal . The Papal Chair by dint of Verse o'return , My Molten Gods , like Israel's Calf , I 'le burn . Copes , Crosiers , all the Trumpery of Rome , Down to great Waller's blazing Hecatomb . I 'le pound my Beads to Dust , and wear no more Those Pagan Bracelets of the Scarlet Whore. But whither am I wrapt ! for oh my Fears ! I bend beneath the weight of Sixty years ; Low runs my Glass , more low my aged Muse , And to my Will , alas ! does Pow'r refuse . But if , Great Prince , my feeble Strength shall fail , Thy Theme I 'le to my Successors entail ; My Heirs th'unfinish'd Subject shall compleat : I have a Son , and He , by all that 's Great , That very Son ( and trust my Oaths , I swore As much to my Great Master Iames before ) , Shall by his Sire's Example , Rome renounce , For he , young Stripling , yet has turn'd but once . That Oxford Nursling , that sweet hopeful Boy , His Father's , and that once Ignatian Joy ; Design'd for a new Bellarmin Goliah , Under the great Gamaliel Obadiah . This Youth , Great Sir , shall your Fames Trumpet blow , And Soar when my dull Wings shall flag below . A Protestant Herculean Column stand When I , a poor weak Pillar of the Land , Now growing Old , and crumbling into Sand. But hark ! methinks , I hear the buzzing Crowd At my Conversion dare to Laugh aloud . Let censuring Fops , and snarling Envy grin , Tickled and pleas'd with my Camelion Skin . No senseless Fools my true Dimensions scan , And know the Lawreat's a Leviathan . Now Tiber's Mouth Ebbs low , and on that Shore ▪ My rowling Bulk , alas , can Sport no more : Down the full Tide I scour , to take a loose In the more swelling Surge of Helvert Sluce . Let Chattering Daws , and every senseless Widgeon , Their Descant pass on that great Name , Religion . Religion , by true Polititian Rules , The Wise man's Strength , and the weak Pride of Fools . For we , who Godliness for gain , support Heavens Votaries for Candidates at Court , Makes our Churchwalls , our Rampart , Sconce and Fort. Our Masses , Dirges , Vespers , Orisons , Our Counterscarps , our Rav'lins , and half Moons . And now our Ave Mary's put to th'rout , And from that Bastion I am beaten out , I 'm but retiring to a new Redoubt . Why should I blush to turn , when my Defence And Plea's so plain ? For if Omnipotence Be th' highest Attribute that Heav'n can boast , That 's the tru'st Church , that Heav'n resembles most . The Tables then are turn'd ; and 't is confest The Strongest and the Mightiest is the Best . In all my Changes I 'm on the Right side , And by the same great Reason justifi'd . When the bold Crescent lately attacqu'd the Cross , Resolv'd the Empire of the World t' engross , Had tottering Vienna's Walls but fail'd , And Turkey over Christendom prevail'd , Long e're this I had cross'd the Dardanello , And sate the Mighty Mahomet's Hail Fellow , Quitting my duller Hopes , the poor Renown Of Eaton-College , or a Dublin-Gown , And commenc'd Graduate in the Great Divan , Had reign'd a more Immortal Musselman . No Art , Pain , Labour , Toil , too much t' assail Heav'ns Tow'ry Battlements . By Heav'n I 'd sail Through all Religions , Church o'r Churches mounted , More than the Rounds that Iacob's Ladder counted . Has this stupendious Revolution past A Change so quick , and I not turn as fast ? Let bogling Conscience shock the squeamish Fool , Poor crazy Animals , whose Stomachs pule . Shall scrup'lous Test disgust their Paschal stickle , Whether true dress'd , in Souse , in Broth , or Pickle ? If Muscadine runs low , I 'm not so dull , But I can pledge Salvation in Lambs-Wool : And if Salvation to One Church is bound , So much the rather would I change all round . Change then can be no fault ; a whole Life long Kept in One Church , may always be i' th' wrong : But there where Conscience circles in her flight , He who 's of all Sides , must be once i' th' right . FINIS .