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to inquire at St. Giles's Church; where the Sexton shew'd him a small Monument, which he said was suppos’d to be Milton's; but the inscription had never been legible fince he was employ'd in that office, which he has possess’d about Forty Years. This, sure, cou'd never have happen'd in fo short a space of time, unless the Epitaph had been indufriously eras'd: and that supposition carries with it so much inhumanity, that I think we ought to believe it was not erected to his Memory.


Paradisum Amiffam

Summi Poetæ


U I legis Amissam Paradifum, grandia Magni

Carmina Miltoni, quid nifi cun&ta legis? Res cunetas, & cun&tarum primordia rerum,

Et fata, & fines, continet ifte liber. Intima panduntur magni penetralia mundi ;

Scribitur & toto quicquid in orbe latet : Terræque, tractusque maris, cælumque profundum,

Sulpbureufque Erebi, fammivomufque fpecus. Queque colunt terras, pontumque, & Tartara cæca;

Quæque colunt fummi lucida regna poli.
Et quodcunque ullis conclufum eft finibus ufquam;

Et fine fire Chaos, & fine fine DE vs:
Et fine fine magis, ( quid magis eft fine fine)

In CHRISTO erga homines conciliatus amor,
Hæc qui speraret, quis crederet e le futura ?

Et tamen bæc bodiè terra Britanna legit.
O quantos in bella Duces ! que protulit arma !

Que canit, & quantâ prælia dira tuba!

Cæleftes acies ! atque in certamine cælum !

Et quæ cæleftes pugna deceret agros ! Quantus in ætberiis tollit se Lucifer armis !

Atque ipfo graditur vix Michaele minor !
Quantis, & quàm funeftis concurritur iris,

Dum ferus bic ftellas protegit, ille rapit !
Dum vulsos montes, ceu tela reciproca, torquent ;

Et non mortali defuper igne pluunt ;
Stat dubius cui se parti concedat Olympus ;

Et metuit pugnæ non superelle fuæ.
At fimul in cælis MESSIÆ infignia fulgent,

Et currus animes, armaque digna DEO;
Horrendúmque rotæ frident, & seva rotarum

Erumpunt torvis fulgura luminibus;
Et flammæ vibrant, & vera tonitura rauco

Admiftis flammis in fonuere polo :
Excidit attonitis mens omnis, & impetus omnis,

Et cassis dextris irrita tela cadunt,
Ad pænas fugiunt, & (ceu foret Orcus afylum!)

Infernis certant condere se tenebris.
Cedite Romani Scriptores, cedite Graii,

Et quos Fama recens, vel celebravit anus : Hæc quicunque leget, tantùm ceciniffe putabit

Mæonidem Ranas, Virgilium Culises.





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HEN I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold,

In Nender book His vast design unfold : Meffiab crown'd, God's reconcil'd, decree, Rebelling Angels, the Forbidden Tree, Heav'n, Hell, Earth, Chaos, All! the argument Held me a-while misdoubting His intent; That He would ruin (for I faw Him strong) The Sacred Truths to fable, and old song ; (So Sampson grop'd the temple's posts in spight) The world o’erwhelming to revenge His fight.

Yet as I read, foon growing less fevere, I lik’d His project, the success did fear; Through that wide field how he his way Mould find, O'er which lame faith leads understanding blind ; Les He perplex'd the things He would explain, And what was easy, He should render vain.

Or, if a work so infinite He fpann'd, Jealous I was that some less Skilful hand (Such as disquiet always what is well, And by ill imitating would excell)

Might hence presume, the whole creation's day
To change in scenes, and shew it in a Play.

Pardon me, Mighty Poet! nor despise
My causeless, yet not impious, surmise.
But I am now convinc'd, and none will dare
Within Thy labors to pretend a share.
Thou hast not miss'd one thought that could be fit;
And all that was improper doft omit:
So that no room is here for writers left,
But to detect their ignorance, or theft.

That majesty which through Thy Work doth reign,
Draws the devout, deterring the profane :
And Things Divine Thou treat'st of in such state,
As them preserves, and Thee inviolate.
At once delight and horror on us feise,
Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease;
And above human flight dost foar aloft,
With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft!
The bird nam'd from that Paradise You sing
So never fags, but always keeps on wing.

Where could'ft Thou words of such a compass find?
Whence furnish such a vast expense of mind ?
Just Heav'n Thee, like Tiresias, to requite,
Rewards with prophesy Thy loss of sight.

Well might'ft thou scorn thy readers to allure
With tinkling rhyme, of Thy own sense secure;
While the Town-Bays writes all the while and spells,
And, like a pack-horse, tires without his bells.
Their fancies like our bushy-points appear,
The poets tag them, we for fashion wear.

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