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| THE FAM’D 1 Italian Muse, whose Rhymes advance | |
| Orlando, and the Paladins of France, | |
| Records that, when our Wit and Sense is flown, | |
| ’Tis lodg’d within the Circle of the Moon | |
| In Earthen Jars, which one, who thither soar’d, | 5 |
| Set to his Nose, snufft up, and was restor’d. | |
| What e’re the Story be, the Moral’s true; | |
| The Wit we lost in Town we find in you. | |
| Our Poets their fled Parts may draw from hence, | |
| And fill their windy Heads with sober Sense. | 10 |
| When London Votes with Southwark’s disagree, | |
| Here may they find their long-lost Loyalty, | |
| Here busie Senates, to th’ old Cause inclin’d, | |
| May snuff the Votes their Fellows left behind: | |
| Your Country Neighbours, when their Grain grows dear, | 15 |
| May come, and find their last Provision here; | |
| Whereas we cannot much lament our Loss, | |
| Who neither carried back nor brought one Cross. | |
| We look’d what Representatives wou’d bring, | |
| But they help’d us, just as they did the King. | 20 |
| Yet we despair not; for we now lay forth | |
| The Sybill’s Books to those who know their Worth; | |
| And tho the first was Sacrific’d before, | |
| These Volumes doubly will the price restore. | |
| Our Poet bade us hope this Grace to find, | 25 |
| To whom by long Prescription you are kind. | |
| He, whose undaunted Muse with Loyal Rage | |
| Has never spar’d the Vices of the Age, | |
| Here finding nothing that his Spleen can raise, | |
| Is forced to turn his Satire into Praise. | 30 |
