W-rb-t-n, Bishop of G-ft---r.
The following extraordinary DEDICATION was prefixed to the Author's Sermons, and that the Publick may have his PoETICAL WORKS compleat, it is added to this Edition.
EALTH to great GLOSTER from a man
unknown,
Who holds thy health as dearly as his own,
Accept this greeting-nor let modeft fear
Call up one maiden blush-I mean not here
To wound with flatt'ry-'tis a Villain's art,
And fuits not with the franknefs of my heart.
Truth beft becomes an Orthodox Divine,
And, fpite of hell, that Character is mine;
To fpeak e'en bitter truths I cannot fear;
But truth, my Lord, is Panegyric here.
Health to great GLOSTER-nor, thro' love of ease,
Which all Priests love, let this address displease.
I afk no favour, not one note I crave,
And, when this busy brain rests in the grave,
(For till that time it never can have rest)
I will not trouble you with one bequest.
Some humbler Friend, my mortal journey done,
More near in blood, a Nephew or a Son,
In that dread hour Executor I'll leave;
For I, alas! have many to receive,
To give, but little-To great GLOSTER Health;
Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth
Here take a falfe alarm-in purfe though poor,
In fpirit I'm right proud, nor can endure
The mention of a bribe-thy pocket's free,
I, tho' a Dedicator, fcorn a fee.
Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes fhare;
I would not ALLEN rob, nor ALLEN's heir.
Think not, a Thought unworthy thy great foul, Which pomps of this world never could controul, Which never offer'd up at pow'rs vain shrine, Think not that Pomp and Pow'r can work on mine. "Tis not thy Name, though that indeed is great, 'Tis not the tinfel trumpery of state,
"Tis not thy Title, Doctor tho' thou art,
"Tis not thy Mitre, which hath won my heart.
State is a farce, Names are but empty Things,
Degrees are bought, and, by mistaken kings,
Titles are oft misplac'd; Mitres, which shine
So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine,
Unless fet off by Virtue; who deceives
Under the sacred fanction of Lawn-sleeves,
Enhances guilt, commits a double fin;
So fair without, and yet fo foul within.
'Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mein,
Thy sweet complacency, thy brow serene,
Thy open front, thy Love-commanding eye,
Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie,
Which can from fixty to fixteen impart
The force of Love and point his blunted dart;
'Tis not thy Face, tho' that by Nature's made
An index to thy foul, tho' there difplay'd
We see thy mind at large, and thro' thy skin
Peeps out that Courtefy which dwells within;
"Tis not thy Birth-for that is low as mine,
Around our heads no lineal glories fhine-
But what is Birth, when, to delight mankind,
Heraldry can make those arms they cannot find;
When Thou art to Thyself, thy Sire unknown,
A Whole, Welch Genealogy Alone?
No, 'tis thy inward Man, thy proper Worth,
Thy right juft eftimation here on earth,
Thy Life and Doctrine uniformly join'd,
And flowing from that wholsome source thy mind,
Thy known contempt of Perfecution's rod,
Thy Charity for Man, thy Love for God,
Thy Faith in Chrift, fo well approv'd 'mongst men,
Which now give life, and utt'rance to my pen.
Thy Virtue, not thy Rank, demands my lays;
"Tis not the Bishop, but the Saint I praise.
Rais'd by that Theme, I foar on wings more strong,
And burst forth into praise with-held too long.
Much did I wish, e'en whilft I kept those sheep, Which, for my curfe, I was ordain'd to keep; Ordain'd, alas! to keep thro' need, not choice, Those sheep which never heard their fhepherd's voice,
Which did not know, yet would not learn their
Which stray'd themselves, yet griev❜d that I
Those sheep, which my good Father (on his bier
Let filial duty drop the pious tear)
Kept well, yet starv'd himself, e'en at that time,
Whilft I was pure, and innocent of rhime,
Whilft, facred Dullness ever in my view,
Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,
Much did I wifh, tho' little could I hope,
A Friend in him, who was the Friend of POPE.
His hand, faid I, my youthful steps fhall guide And lead me fafe where thousands fall befide; His Temper, his Experience fhall controul, And hush to peace the tempeft of my foul; His Judgment teach me, from the Critic school, How not to err, and how to err by rule; Inftru&t me, mingling profit with delight, Where POPE was wrong, where SHAKESPEARE was not right;
Where they are justly prais'd, and where thro whim,
How little's due to them, how much to him.
Rais'd 'bove the flavery of common rules,
Of Common-Senfe, of modern, antient schools,
Those feelings banish'd which mislead us all,
Fools as we are, and which we Nature call,
He, by his great example, might impart
A better fomething, and baptize it Art;
He, all the feelings of my youth forgot,
Might fhew me what is Tafte, by what is not;
By him fupported, with a proper pride,
I might hold all Mankind as fools befide;
He (fhould a World, perverse and peevish grown,
Explode his maxims, and affert their own,
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