An Epistle to Mr. Dryden 1688 Approx. 6 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A38517 Wing E3166 ESTC R226867 12497945 ocm 12497945 62577 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. A38517) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 62577) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 210:28) An Epistle to Mr. Dryden Dryden, John, 1631-1700. 1 sheet ([1] p.) s.n., [London : 1688] In verse. 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Broadsides -- England -- 17th century. 2002-07 TCP Assigned for keying and markup 2002-09 Aptara Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2002-10 John Latta Sampled and proofread 2002-10 John Latta Text and markup reviewed and edited 2002-12 pfs Batch review (QC) and XML conversion An Epistle to Mr. Dryden . DRYDEN , thy Wit has catterwauld too long , Now Lero , Lero , is the only Song . What Singing , Dancing , Interludes of late Stuff , and set off our goodly Farce of State ? Not Abbevil can turn a deep intrigue , Till first well warm'd with Bishop Talgol's Jigg . Wem cannot sleep , or if a Nap he takes , His Dream some old Tressilian Ballad breaks . But was e'er seen the like , in Prose or Metre , To this mad Play , or work of Father P ? At Court no longer Punchionello takes , Each Scene , Part , Cue , mishapen to the Mac's . Such Plot , and the Catastrophe is such , We must be either Irish all , or Dutch. Our very Judges in Westminster-Hall , Like their old Roof , are Irish Timber all . And ( bless us ! ) Irish Wolves are brought to keep The Nation , grown now all such silly Sheep ; Such errant Asses , errant Cattle made , Or to be yoak'd , or saddl'd , fleec'd , or slea'd . O Martyrs Son ! thy destiny is shown , Such props are for a Scaffold , not a Throne : So Iuno , in her impotence of rage , By Heaven deny'd , did Hell's black Powers engage ; Yet sped the Heroe : Iove and Fate were strong ; Religious care ! He took his Gods along : But heark , O heark , the Belgick Lion roars , And shakes afar the French and British Shoars : One Brandy drinks , one mad with Prophecies : Lord ! what they tell us of some Prince from Frize ; Arms , and the Man they sing , no French finess , But hearty Blows , and Brandenburg Address . Hence Vigor , and our Figure come agen , We rise , and walk , all true erected men . The force of those Circaean Cups subdu'd , And the wild Charms our new Armida brew'd , The Witchcraft he ( our true Rinaldo ) broke , And grubs the base pretenders to his stock . But oh , what Spirit of Deceit afar , Possess'd our Pulpits , and bewitch'd the Bar ? What Bane , what Mischief on poor Mortals shed By Vermin , from the Laws corruption bred ? Tho to their Irish Roof no Cobwebs cleave , Below what strife and endless toyls they weave : Wanting brave Strength to strangle men to death , What Frauds they hide ! What Venom underneath ! And when some shorter course to Murder 's shown , Cry , O that ( luscious ) Point ! they gain'd the Crown . Sons of the Pulpit the same measures keep , And of that same stumm'd Cup have drunk as deep . Agog for some odd transubstantiate thing , Chimera reign , and Metaphysick King , Sublim'd to School Divinity texreams , Their Brains would crow with Patriarchal Dreams . So high from solid honest wisdom blown , They'd have some Hippo-Centaur on the Throne . Not Law-ordain'd , but by some God appointed , Not Lay-elected , but be Priest-anointed . Away this Goblin Witchcraft , Priestcraft-Prince ; Give us a King , Divine , by Law and Sense . Now Bar and Pulpit to Dragoons a sport , Their Cause is carried to the last Resort . Princes in more compendious method teach , Force is their way ; let old Apostles preach . What 's stablish'd Law , where standing Armies come ; Or who'll talk Gospel to a Kettle Drum ? When God would hear , where Giants did oppress , The several Nations had their Hercules . So were the Horns of grizly violence broke , So People freed from triple Geryon's yoke . The various Snake in Lerna Lough that bred , That loll'd and hiss'd to death , at every head , Nemaean Lion , Erymanthian Boar , In Bogs that wallow , and on Hills that roar : All by his Godlike Prowess done away , Their lawless rule , and that Gigantick sway . In vain whilst this high Virtue Nations sought , The Nassau-House were never yet without . Nor is confin'd to Provinces their care , Their generous labour neighboring Kingdoms share . Here the foul Herd slee from his lifted hand , That long had made a Stable of the Land. The Monster of the Lough , new Lerna-Plague ( But scarce in head ) the Bog-begotten Teague , The ravenous kind , the Harpyes sharp for prey , With Birds obscene , and uncouth to the day . No Den , no Ditch , no rousting for 'em more , Now , now is come our Hercules ashore . Vile Fraud dispell'd , and superstitious Mists : He from our Temple drives all knavish Priests . Then warmer Wallop , in due Scarlet shown , To Coffee - Dick bequeaths his rusty Gown . Oh Dryden , if this Hercules were thine , How wou'd his Club , and Atlas-shoulders shine : How wou'dst thou all our Maids of Honor fright , With naughty Tale , of Fifty in a night ? Howe'er , no more let Xavier mar thy Pen , No Miracle to Forty thousand Men. When Law , and bald Divinity begins , Why then , the marvel that a Poet sins ? Exeter , Nov. 5. 1688. FINIS .