The state of innocence and fall of man an opera, written in heroique verse and dedicated to her Royal Highness, the Dutchess / by John Dryden ...

To Mr. DRYDEN, on his POEM of PARADICE.

FOrgive me, awful Poet, if a Muse, Whom artless Nature did for plainness chuse, In loose attire presents her humble thought, Of this best POEM, that you ever wrought. This fairest labor of your teeming brain I wou'd embrace, but not with flatt'ry stain; Something I wou'd to your vast Virtue raise, But scorn to dawb it with a fulsome praise; That wou'd but blot the Work I wou'd commend, And shew a Court-Admirer, not a Friend. To the dead Bard, your fame a little owes, For Milton did the Wealthy Mine disclose, And rudely cast what you cou'd well dispose: He roughly drew, on an old fashion'd ground, A Chaos, for no perfect World was found, Till through the heap, your mighty Genius shin'd; His was the Golden Ore which you refin'd. He first beheld the beauteous rustic Maid, And to a place of strength the prize convey'd; You took her thence: to Court this Virgin brought Drest her with gemms, new weav'd her hard spun thought And softest language, sweetest manners taught. Till from a Comet she a star did rise, Not to affright, but please our wondring eyes. Betwixt ye both is fram'd a nobler peice, Than ere was drawn in Italie or Greece. Thou from his source of thoughts ev'n Souls dost bring As smileing gods, from sullen Saturn spring. When nights dull Mask the face of Heav'n does wear, 'Tis doubtful light, but here and there a Star, Which serves the dreadful shadowes to display, That vanish at the rising of the day;

But then bright robes the Meadows all adorn, And the World looks as it were newly born. So when your Sense his mystic reason clear'd, The melancholy Scene all gay appear'd; New light leapt up, and a new glory smil'd, And all throughout was mighty, all was mild. Before this Palace which thy wit did build Which various fancy did so gawdy gild And judgment has with solid riches fill'd. My humbler Muse begs she may centry stand, Amongst the rest that guard this Eden Land. But there's no need, for ev'n thy foes conspire Thy praise, and hating thee, thy Work admire. On then O mightiest of the inspir'd men, Monarch of Verse; new Theams employ thy Pen. The troubles of Majestick CHARLES set down, Not David vanquish'd more to reach a Crown, Praise him, as Cowly did that Hebrew King, Thy Theam's as great, do thou as greatly sing. Then thou mayst boldly to his favor rise Look down and the base serpent's hiss despise, From thund'ring envy safe in Lawrel sit, While clam'rous Critiques their vile heads submit Condemn'd for Treason at the bar of Wit.

NAT. LEE.