This complimentary poem is inserted in a volume entitled, Poems, viz. 1. A Panegyrick to the King 2. Songs and Sonnets. 3. The bind Lady, a Comedy. 4. The Fourth Book of Virgil. 5. Statius his Achilleis, with Anocations. 6. A Panegyrick to Generall Monck. By the Honorable S Robert Howard. London, Printed for Henry Herringman, 1660. It is signed John Driden. It forms the first proof of Dryden's intimacy with the family of Thomas, Earl of Berkshire, father of Sir Robert Howard and of the Lady Elizabeth Howard, the poet's future wife.]

As there is music uninform'd by art

In those wild notes, which, with a merry heart,

The birds in unfrequented shades express, Who, better taught at home, yet please us less:

So in your verse a native sweetness dwells, Which shames composure, and its art excels. Singing no more can your soft numbers grace

Then paint adds charms unto a beauteous face.

Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep, Their even calmness does suppose them

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While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all: this is a piece too fair
To be the child of chance, and not of care.
No atoms casually together hurl'd
Could e'er produce so beautiful a world.
Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit,
As would destroy the providence of wit.
'Tis your strong genius then which does
not feel

Those weights would make a weaker spirit reel.

To carry weight, and run so lightly too,
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.
Great Hercules himself could ne'er do

Your easier odes, which for delight were penn'd,

Yet our instruction make their second end: We're both enrich'd and pleas'd, like them that woo

At once a beauty and a fortune too.
Of moral knowledge Poesy was queen,
And still she might, had wanton wits not
been;

Who, like ill guardians, liv'd themselves at large,

And, not content with that, debauch'd their charge.

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Like some brave captain, your successful pen Restores the exil'd to her crown again; And gives us hope, that having seen the days

When nothing flourish'd but fanatic bays, All will at length in this opinion rest: "A sober prince's government is best." This is not all; your art the way has found

To make improvement of the richest ground,

That soil which those immortal laurels bore,

That once the sacred Maro's temples wore.
Elisa's griefs are so express'd by you,
They are too eloquent to have been true. 60
Had she so spoke, Æneas had obey'd
What Dido, rather then what Jove, had
said.

If funeral rites can give a ghost repose,
Your muse so justly has discharged those,
Elisa's shade may now its wand'ring cease,
And claim a title to the fields of peace.
But if Eneas be oblig'd, no less

Your kindness great Achilles doth confess;

Thro' the large dome, the people's joyful sound,

Sent back, is still preserv'd in hallow'd ground;

Which in one blessing mix'd descends on you,

As heighten'd spirits fall in richer dew.
Not that our wishes do increase your store:
Full of yourself, you can admit no more;
We add not to your glory, but employ
Our time, like angels, in expressing joy.
Nor is it duty, or our hopes alone,
Create that joy, but full fruition:
We know those blessings which we must

possess,

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Both Indies, (rivals in your bed,) provide With gold or jewels to adorn your bride. This to a mighty king presents rich ore, While that with incense does a god implore. Two kingdoms wait your doom, and, as you choose,

This must receive a crown, or that must lose.

Thus from your Royal Oak, like Jove's of old,

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Are answers sought, and destinies foretold: Propitious oracles are begg'd with vows, And crowns that grow upon the sacred boughs.

Your subjects, while you weigh the nations' fate,

Suspend to both their doubtful love or hate: Choose only, sir, that so they may possess With their own peace their children's hap

piness.