ON PARADISE LOS 114 So that no room is here for writers left, But to detet their ignorance, or theft. That majefly which through Thy Work doth reign, Draws the devout, deterring the profane: And Things Divine Thou treat'a of in fuch ftate, As them preferves, and Thee inviolate. At once delight and horror on us feize, Thou flog'ft with in much gravity and eafe 5 And above human flight dolt boar aloft. With plume fo thong, fo equal, and fo loft I The bird nam'd from that Paradife You ling So never fl,gs, but always keeps on wing. Where could'ft Thou words of fuch a compafs find ? Whence furnith fuch a vaft expence of mind ? Juft Heav'n Thee, like Tirefias, to requite, Rewards with prophefy Thy lobs of fight. Well might't thou ;corn thy readers to allure With tinkling rime, of thy own fenfe fecure ; While the Town-Bays writes all the whileand fpells, And, like a pack-honfe, tires without his bells. Their fancies like our bufhy-points appear, The poets tag them, we for fa(hion wear. I too tranfported by the mode offend ; And while I mean to praife Thee, muff commend. Thy verfe created like Thy Theme fublime, In number, weight, and meafure, needs not rime. ANDREW MARVEL.
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