Lutrin

Front matter

BOILEAUs

LUTRIN:

A

Preface

Monsieur BOILEAU's

PREFACE.

TWERE in vain now to deny that the following Poem was occasion'd by a petty Quarrel that happen'd in one of the most celebrated Churches of Paris, between the Treasurer of the Relicks, and the Master of the Choir; otherwise call'd the Prelate and the Chanter. [The latter it seems being a Man of a forward encroaching Spirit, had made some Steps towards an Invasion of the Rights and Privileges of the former; which he not brooking, and being resolv'd to humble him, bethought himself of setting up in the Choir a sort of a Reading-Desk (Lutrin) upon the very Overture of the Chanters Seat, and so block him up.] The Fact is true, and that's all. The rest is mere Fiction from the Beginning to the End; and all the Actors in it are not only invented, but industriously drawn quite opposite to the true Character of the Ministers of that Church, who for the most part, especially the Canons, are Men of great Virtue and as much Wit: There's one amongst them, whose Opinion I would as willingly have upon my Performances, as of a great many Gentlemen of the Academy. 'Tis not therefore to be wonder'd, that no Body took Offence at this Poem, since in Truth no Body is attack'd by it, A Spendthrift is not troubled to see a Miser expos'd; Nor does a Religious Person resent the ridiculing of a Rake. I shall not mention how I was engag'd in this Trifle upon a kind of a jocular Challenge made me by the late Monsieur Lamoignon, whom I paint under the Name of Aristus. A particular Narration of this Matter, does not seem to be at all necessary. But I should think I did my self a great deal of wrong, to let slip this Opportunity of informing those who are ignorant of it, how much I was honour'd with that great Man's Friendship, during his Life. I began to be known to him at the Time when my Satyrs made the greatest Noise, and the obliging Access he gave me into his illustrious Family, was a very advantageous Apology in my Behalf, against those who were minded to accuse me of Libertinism and ill Morals. He was a Man of an amazing Knowledge, and a passionate Admirer of all the good Books of Antiquity, and this was what made my Works the more tolerable to him; fancying he perceiv'd in 'em some Taste of the Ancients. His Piety was unfeign'd, and yet had nothing in it that was stiff or troublesome. He was not at all frighten'd at the Title of my Works, Satyrs, where in Truth he found only Verses and Authors expos'd. He was pleas'd often to commend me for having purg'd this Sort of Poetry from that Obscenity and Filth, which till then, had been as it were, peculiar to it. Thus I had the good Fortune not to be disagreeable to him. He let me into all his Pleasures and Diversions, that is to say, his Studies and Retirements. He favour'd me sometimes even with his strictest Confidence, and open'd to me the inmost Recesses of his Soul. And what did I not see there! What a surprising Treasure of Probity and Justice! What an inexhaustible Fund of Piety and Zeal! Tho' the outward Lustre of his Vertue was exceeding great, it was infinitely brighter within; and 'twas visible how carefully he temper'd the Rays of it, not to wound the Eyes of an Age so corrupt as ours. I was sincerely struck with so many admirable Qualities; and as he always discovered a great deal of Kindness for me, so I ever return'd it with the strongest Devotion for him. The Respects I paid him were not mixt with any Mercenary Leven of self-Interest, and I made it more my Business to profit by his Conversation, than his Credit at Court. He died at the Time when this Friendship was in its highest Point of Perfection, and the Remembrance of so great a Loss afflicts me daily. Why must those who are so worthy to live, be so soon snatch'd from the World, whilst the Worthless and Undeserving are crown'd with Length of Days! I shall say no more upon so sad a Subject, lest I wet with Tears the Preface of a Work purely Jocular.

Some Account of Boileau's Writings, and this Translation

SOME

ACCOUNT

OF

BOILEAUs Writings,

And this Translation.

To Mr ——

SIR,

IF Criticising other People's Works, especially living and late Authors, were not a Task that I am by no Means inclin'd to, I should have sooner answer'd your Desire, and told you what I thought of Monsieur Boileaus Lutrin, and the Translation of it into English Verse, which you did me the Favour to send me in Writing.

M. Boileau and his Works, especially this of his Lutrin, are of so great a Name in the World, that I think it a pretty bold Attempt to endeavour to translate him; not but that I must confess I know but few Hands cou'd have succeeded better than this Gentleman has done. Amongst that Little that I have read of the French Poetry, M. Boileau seems to me without Comparison to have had the finest and the truest Taste of the best Authors of Antiquity; his violent Passion for 'em and famous Disputes in their behalf are too well known to be told over again now; it is very certain that he had 'em so perpetually in his Eye, that he form'd most of his Poetical Writings so closely after their Models, that in many of 'em especially his Satyrs, he can hardly pretend to the Honour of any thing more, than having barely translated them well; and I am apt to believe that if the Design of the Lutrin be entirely his own and Modern, it is because there was nothing in the ancient Poetry of this kind for him to draw after. However it is very plain that ev'n in this, Virgil has been of great Use to him, and supply'd him with some of his finest Images; to mention one Particular only, every Body may see, that his Fury who sets the good People at Paris together by the Ears, is a manifest Copy of Alecto in the seventh Æneid, or indeed is rather taken from Juno and Alecto together, as both contriving and executing the Mischief her Self. I won't pretend to give you a Critical Account of this Kind of Mock-Heroic Poetry, if it can be call'd a Kind, that is so new in the World, and of which we have had so few Instances. I call it new because I take La Secchia Rapita of Taffoni to be the first of this Sort that was ever written, or at least that ever I heard of: As for Homer's Battle of the Frogs and Mice, I take that only to be a Tale or Fable, like those of Æsop, amongst which it is to be found, and ought rather to be rank'd among the Writings of the Mythologists than those of the Poets. Whatever Name or Title the Criticks may be pleas'd to dignify or distinguish this Sort of Writing with, I am sure it has had the good Fortune to be very well receiv'd: The Reputation of the Lutrin in France, and the Dispensary in England, are two of the best Modern Instances of Success in Poetry that can be given.

And since I have mention'd those two Poems together, it may not be Improper to observe, that in the Latter of 'em, tho' writ upon a very different Subject, there are some Passages that are plainly Imitations, or indeed even Translations of the Former; Those who will take the Trouble to compare 'em, now they are both in one Language, will be best able to judge, how near the Translator of the Lutrin comes to the Beauties which all the World has so justly admir'd in Dr. Garth.

I won't venture to say this Translation is the most correct and finish'd Piece of its kind that we have, but I believe most People will allow, That the Author of it is perfectly Master of Boileau, and in some Places has even improv'd him, to mention that only of,

Dans le Reduit obscur, &c.

And so on for a Dozen Verses; where I think the English at least Equal, if not Superiour to the French.

The General Turn of his Verse is agreeable, his Diction Poetical, and very proper to the Subject, and that whatever Faults there may be, they are meerly verbal, and may very well be receiv'd under that good natur'd Allowance which Horace makes for those

—— Quas aut incuria fudit Aut humana parum cavit Natara.

That which indeed to me seems most liable to an Exception, is, that the Gentleman has taken the Liberty in some Places to depart from his Author, and to substitute other Persons and Things in the Room of Those which he has left out or chang'd; and that while he still retains the original Story, and keeps the Scene at Paris, he makes use of the Names of Men and Books in England, 'unknown to and unthought of by Monsieur Boileau, and particularly in the Battle of the Books, where he makes use of some French and some English: I could have wish'd indeed they had all belong'd to one Nation; For tho' the Satyr upon our own Countrymen is very just and entertaining, yet I must always think the Poem would have look'd more of a Piece, if the Names had been all as they are in the Original, or that else removing the Action and Scene entirely into England, the Names of Persons, Places, &c. had been all English, and so the whole had been rather an Imitation than a Translation of M. Boileau.

After all I am sensible that it may be easily enough reply'd in Defence of the Translation, that as it is intended for English Readers, and more especially for those who don't understand French, so a long Bead-roll of dull French Authors who are grown into such Contempt, that they are hardly read, or even known in their own Country, would be but an odd Entertainment to People here, who never heard of 'em before; besides it must be allow'd, that one may very easily apprehend the Plaisantry of the Satyr in the Original, by the Translator's mustering up a Set of English Authors of equal Degree and like kind of Dulness with those mention'd by M. Boileau.

As for the Objection of his having chang'd the Persons, I believe a Subject of Great Britain may be very easily forgiven if the Love of his Country and the just Honour which he has for his Sovereign, led him to apply those handsome Complements to the Queen, which the Author makes to the King of France in some of the Canto's, and in others that of the Prince of Conde to the Duke of Marlborough.

It is not the first Time that Justice has divested that Monarch of Honours which he had long assum'd to himself, to place 'em more worthily upon Her Majesty: Nor is it now only that his Grace has been adorn'd with the Spoils of a French General. The Praise is, I am sure at least as highly deserv'd, and as justly given by the English as the French Poet. And indeed I think the whole Translation to be so well done in the main and so entertaining, that what little Faults are in it, if there are any, ought not to be taken Notice of, for the Sake of the Beauties. Nor had I taken the Liberty to say what I have said of it, if it had not been to give you a Proof of an exact Sincerity in every thing where you ask my real Opinion.

I am

SIR,

N. Rowe.

To the Right Honourable Charles, Lord Halifax.

To the Right Honourable CHARLES Lord HALIFAX.

YOUR Lordship is not to be inform'd of the great Reputation Monsieur Boileau has acquired by all his Works. They are esteem'd so Nice in themselves, that it has been thought by some as rash an Attempt to translate this French Author, as for an English General to attack an Army of theirs. The late Successes of some former Campaigns have sufficiently prov'd that their Heroes are not Invincible; and the happy Imitations of some of their best Pieces, that their Writers are not Incomparable. Not that I'm so vain as to Imagine the following Translation deserves to be mention'd in the same Breath with some I cou'd name. But certain it is, the French Genius may be match'd (if not surpass'd) in both, the Pen as well as the Sword; whatever exalted Notions to the contrary Some among us may have, who cou'd relish Slavery it self, if it were but French. I do not intend anything to the disadvantage of our Enemy's Wit and Knowledge, but only to put the Matter in a Way of Issue and let the Country try it. I have endeavour'd with the Assistance of my Friends, to do Monsieur Boileau all possible Justice in this Celebrated Piece of his, the Lutrin; I hope I have us'd him with that Civility which is due to one of the first Figure in the Commonwealth of Learning; I was going to say, with that Generosity our Country-Men treat his at Litchfield and Nottingham.

But my Lord, if it really be so bold an Undertaking to translate the Lutrin, it is unpardonably worse to offer it to Your Lordship, whose Penetration, is equal to Your Noble Birth; and yet Both yield to the prevalence of your Good Temper, which with a like Indulgence receives the Homage of all sorts of Persons.

Upon this Foundation I presum'd to set Your Lordship's Name on the Frontispiece of this Work; to be to it, what you are to Your Country, its Ornament and Protection.

If ever your Lordship shall alienate so much of Your Time from the Public Good, as to read this Poem; You will find very Great, but necessary Variations from the Original; whether for the better or the worse, I submit to You, from whose Judgment there is no Appeal.

Nothing checks and deadens the Fancy more than a too superstitious Respect for the Original, especially in Poetry; It is commonly the Cause that an Idolatrous Translator (as la Motte calls such a one) endeavouring too exactly to render All the Beauties of his Author, gives you in Truth never a one. Every Minute Circumstance of a Thought cannot be preserv'd with any tolerable Grace, nor is it indeed necessary; pro- vided the Translator makes amends for his neglect of what is less important, by Improving and if possible by Refining upon Essentials; which is better done by Studying the Genius and Copying the Tour and Air of an Author, than in adhering to a scrupulous Detail of Phrases, ever flat and disagreeable.

Thus a Translation may be Excellent, and by this an Equitable Reader may judge of it's Merit. A Picture is but the Translation of a Face, yet if Apelles or Lysippus shall attempt an Alexander, Posterity will pay an equal Veneration to the Artist and the Hero.

Translation, in general, besides its useful Communicative Character to recommend it, and other Arguments that may be brought in its behalf, comes backed with what most Arts and Sciences pretend to, Antiquity.

Did not Terence divert the Romans with the Original Comedies of the Greek Menander, turn'd into Latin, which serves as a Standard at this Day? And by what remains of Alcæus and some other Lyrics, 'tis evident how much Horace himself was oblig'd to the Greeks, not by copying the Measure of their Numbers, but by imitating the express Sense of the Authors. To bring it nigher Home; we at this Day read Ben. Johnson's Catiline and other Plays of his with Pleasure; yet those who converse with Tully, know who furnish'd him with his Rhetorick.

I expect the Critics will fall upon me for writing in this Manner to Your Lordship, as if I was giving You a Lesson instead of a Dedication. I must confess it looks something like it. But I rather chuse to repeat to Your Lordship what You already know, than to exhibit a Bill of Your Perfections and Excellencies which all the World knows.

Monsieur Boileau calls this Poem of his, Heroi-Comique, Mock-Heroic; that is, a Ridiculous Action made considerable in Heroic Verse.

If I distinguish right, there are two sorts of Burlesque; the first where things of mean Figure and Slight Concern appear in all the Pomp and Bustle of an Epic Poem; such is this of the Lutrin. The second sort is where Great Events are made Ridiculous by the meanness of the Character, and the oddness of the Numbers, such is the Hudibras of our Excellent Butler.

Boileau, like Horace, was born equally for Satyr and for Praise. The Lutrin partakes of Both. The Satyrical Part, as 'tis very severe upon those of his own Church, so I cou'd wish it were applicable to the Romish Clergy only and none other.

As for the Panegyricks so frequent in it, I know not why they should not as well become the Queen of France as the French King, the Prince of Mindleheim as the Prince of Conde, and the Atticus of Dr. Garth as the Aristus of Boileau.

I am

Your Lordship's most Obedient

and most Humble Servant,

J. Ozell.

Canto I.

THE

Lutrin of Boileau.

A

MOCK-HEROIC.

CANTO I.

ARMS and the PRIEST I sing, whose Martial Soul No Toil cou'd terrify, no Fear controul; Active it urg'd his Outward Man to dare The num'rous Hazards of a Pious War:

Nor did th' Immortal Prelates Labours cease, Till Victory had Crown'd 'em with Success; Till his gay Eyes sparkling with fluid Fire, Beheld the Desk reflourish in the Choir. In Vain the Chanter and the Chapter strove; Twice they essay'd the fatal Desk to move: As oft the Prelate with unweary'd Pain, Fix'd it to his proud Rival's Seat again.

Muse, let the Holy Warrior's Rage be sung; Why Sacred Minds Infernal Furies stung: What Spark inflam'd the zealots Rival's Heat, How Heavenly Breasts with Human Passions beat!

And thou Illustrious Hero, whose Command Asswag'd the Fire, whose salutary Hand With more than Æsculapian Art cou'd heal The Schism sick Church, and stop the growing Ill.

Propitious o'er these Sacred Numbers shine, With thy bright Influence aid the great Design; And as you deign a willing Ear to lend, Religiously th' important Tale attend.

MId'st the soft Pleasures of Fraternal Peace, In laughing Plenty and luxuriant Ease, Paris beheld her Ancient Chappel rise, Florid in Years, delightful to her Eyes; Her lusty Canons rosy Beauties grace, And brilliant Health crimsons each ruddy Face; Fatten'd with long and holy Luxury; Deep sunk in Down, soft as their Furs they lie; While there the sacred Sluggards waste the Day In dull Repose——By Deputy they Pray. They only watch'd that they might relish Rest, And never fasted but to make a Feast.

Unhealthy Mattins wisely they decline, And substitute a Journeyman-Divine.

When Discord rose a squalid guilty Shade, Black as her Crimes, in sable Night array'd; Soft Peace with Horror view'd the Ghastly Spright, And trembling fled her inauspicious Sight: The livid Fury her dire Course had run, From Church to Church her Visitation gone; Then at the noisy Hall's litigious Bar She stop'd, and smil'd to see the pleasing War; Contemplating her growing Power the stood, And breath'd Contention on the jarring Croud. In countless Shoals her faithful Normans flow; Normans whose Breasts perpetual Tempests blow: Squadrons of Lawyers here, drive o'er the Plain, And Clients there, the dreadful Charge sustain:

The Lord, Clown, Senator, Fop, Bully, Cit, Mingling in one vexatious Jargon fight; Round Themis every Standard they display, And in the Wordy War consume the Day.

The Fury raising then her baleful Head, O'er the Parisian Towers her Venom shed; Unshaken yet beholds one Church alone, But one, that Peaceful durst her Power disown. Sacred to pious Ease this Temple stood Unshook by Tempests in a raging Flood: Of all her numerous Sisters only she Enjoy'd an disturb'd Tranquillity.

The Fiend at Sight of this offensive Peace Grins horrible, she howls, her Serpents hiss; Then lashing her thin Form, strong Poison fills Her Mouth; with Vengeance her lean Bosom swells;

Her Eyes in Streams of livid Lightning glow, Distraction sits malignant on her Brow. , said she (and as the Fury spoke The trembling Windows jarr'd, the Houses shook) Have my resistless Fires these Hundred Years Inflam'd the Carmelites, the Cordeliers? Did not the Celestines my Fury feel, Cou'd great St. Austins Order me repell? Have I involv'd in Feuds the Ministry? Have I made Convoc——ns disagree? And shall this Church alone rebellious dare Cherish eternal Peace, when I bid War? And am I Discord? Then may Tumult cease, If I've no Power to blast her boasted Peace: To hated Quiet let Mankind return, Nor on my sacred Altars Incense burn.

This said, she strait assum'd a Chanters Dress; Such was her Shape, so formal in her Pace: Her Warlike Visage rich in Rubies shines, Painted with the best Blood of generous Vines. Thus dress'd, she to the sleeping Prelate flies, In this dissembled Form deceives his Eyes.

Deep in the Covert of a dark Alcove, Form'd for the idle Gods of Sleep and Love, A Downy Couch appears with wond'rous Care, At great Expence secur'd from noxious Air: Curtains in double Folds around it run, And bar all Entrance of the intruding Sun; Artfully rais'd to lull each softer Sence, Devoted to the Goddess Indolence. In idle Riot there she keeps her Court, There airy Visions, wanton Phantoms sport;

Here negligently Dreaming out the Day, Dissolv'd in Ease the Holy Sluggard lay, Strengthen'd with an immoderate Morning Meal, The Glutton batten'd till the Dinner Bell: Youth in its with vernal Grace, Shone in his Eyes, and brighten'd on his Face; His Chin enormous, overspreads his Chest, In three deep Folds descending on his Breast: There doz'd the leaden Lump of slumbring Fat, While the press'd Cushions groan beneath the Weight.

The Fury entring saw the Table spread, In artful Order elegantly laid; She recogniz'd the Church, and thus address'd, With her delusive Words, the sleeping Priest.

Prelate arise, quit this inglorious Down, Or the proud Chanter will thy Power disown:

He sings Oremus, he Processions makes, With his resounding Voice the Chappel shakes: Without thy Leave thy Blessings he bestows; His Mouth with endless Benedictions flows: Do'st thou then wait till this Invader's Hand Seizes thy Mitre, takes thy high Command. Shake off these idle Bonds, or all you lose; Renounce thy Bishoprick, or thy Repose.

She spoke, and her infectious Breath inspires His troubled Bosom with contentious Fires. The drowsy Prelate at her Words revives Confus'd and frighten'd, but his Blessing gives.

So wounded by a Wasp have I beheld A sturdy Bull, Lord of the flow'ry Field; Unus'd to Pain till then in amorous Play, He Lov'd and Eat, and Wanton'd out the Day:

But now impatient Loves and Feeds no more, The Neighbouring Forests tremble at his Roar: With deep fetch'd Bellowings the noble Beast

Exhales his Spirits, and torments his Breast At the vile Insect that disturbs his Rest.

Thus the gall'd Prelate's Rage no Balm can heal, The Servants first his rising Fury Feel; His Rage grows high, and kindling by Degrees, From his stung Bosom drives inactive Peace. He dresses, and oh Horror! makes a Vow, Tho' Dinner waits, he to the Choir will go. Wise Gilotin his Chaplain vainly strove, With sage Advice this rash Resolve to move; Councell'd, Intreated, every Danger told; That then 'twas Noon, that Dinner wou'd be cold.

What more than frantick Rage (said he) now Reigns? What wild Capricios hurry round your Brains? Support your Lustre better, think at least A rich laborious Prelate is a Jest: Let a full Meal this useless rage expell; Sharpen your Appetite, and blunt your Zeal; This is no Ember-Week, the Church commands No Fast; impose not then these rigid Bands. Great Sir, resume your Senses and your Food, A Dinner heated twice was never good.

Thus Gilotin2Then pointing shew'd his Lord The smoaking Soup attending on the Board; The Prelate struck with Reverence and Delight, Stood silent conquer'd by the pleasing Sight.

Victorious Pottage stop'd his eager Haste, Soften'd his Rage, and broke his three Hours Fast. Yet the black Choler strugling with his Meat, Oppos'd the Passage of each luscious Bit. Good Gilotin express'd in Groans his Care, And politickly spreads the growing Fear. His Partizans the dreadful News receive, And feeling own a sympathetic Grief: In numerous Troops to their lov'd Patron flie, And bravely swear to Conquer or to Die.

Thus when the fierce Pigmean Army crouds, The Banks of Heber, or Strimonian Floods; The haughty Cranes round their known Leader swarm, And their invincible Battallions form.

Pleas'd with the Sight, the Prelate rowl'd his Eyes, Confess'd his new-born Joy, and strove to rise: His Colour grows again, his Voice receives Its ancient Tone, and the whole Man revives; The lusty Gammon reassumes its Place, He scans and blesses every friendly Face. Then to the general Health a Goblet swills; Each Man the great Example takes, and fills: The Cruise bled pure Vermillion Nectar round, And the Desert their Entertainment crown'd.

And now the Orator prepares to speak; He groans as if his mighty Heart would break. Then in a Voice to his Misfortunes bent, Thus in a proper Tone began his Plaint.

Illustrious Partners of my long Fatigues, You sole Supporters of my Pious Leagues; By whose Assistance I at last am made Of a Mad Chapter the exalted Head. To your incessant Services I own All the rich Honours that imboss my Gown; And can you unconcern'd with equal Eyes, Behold my Rival, and confirm his Joys? Must I, the Creature of your Wisdom, fall A Sacrifice to that proud Chanting Baal? Will you my Cause, and your own Right deny? Can you and angry Heaven stand Neuter by? (This Morn a sacred Vision I beheld; A Deity these fatal Truths reveal'd.) Yes, he has seiz'd the Fruits of all my Toil, And insolently glories in the Spoil:

He Daily blesses the unhallow'd Croud, Pronounces Benedicat Vos aloud. Horror on Horror! who can speak the rest! Turns my own pointed Weapons on my Breast.

Here Tears and Sighs his faltring Language break; His Tears and Sighs too eloquently speak: Redoubled Sobs stopt the respiring Breath; His Visage darken'd, Choler strove with Death: But Gilotin the fierce Attack withstood, And a full Bowl repell'd the rising Blood.

When Sidrac came, Age lengthen'd out his Way, (The languid Limbs confessing their Decay.) Four Ages in this peaceful Choir he told; Knew Men and Manners well, was Wise and Bold;

And this rare Knowledge did his Merit raise, From Sexton to the Vestry-Keeper's Place. He saw the sinking Prelate, guess'd his Grief, And with paternal Care brought swift Relief.

Then thus the Reverend Sire2Prelate revive; To the dull Chanter useless Sorrow give: Arise, resume thy Spirits, and thy Power; I will thy injur'd Empire's Rights restore: Collect your Judgment, and attend with Care, What Heaven and Heavenly Powers inspire me, Hear.

Where now that supercilious Chanter rears His harden'd Front, that Source of all thy Cares, In ancient Days a well known Desk of Wood, Fram'd of unequal Structure firmly stood; There in the Choir, on thy Left-Hand 'twas plac'd, And its large Sides a spacious Shadow cast.

Behind this Work the humble Chanter sat In an obscure Invisible Retreat: When forward to the radiant Day alone, Attracting every Eye the Prelate shone; Whether some Dæmon, to the Desk a Foe, Or Nightly Force combin'd its Overthrow; Or was it Destinys unerring Hand That Pre-ordain'd it should no longer stand. One fatal Morning with surprizing Noise, The great Machine fell down before our Eyes: In Vain we at the Angry Heav'ns repin'd; 'Twas to the Vestry in our Sight confin'd; There thirty Winters hid from open Day, Forgotten in Ignoble Dust it lay.

Hear Prelate then——When nightly Mists arise, And veil in dim suffusion prying Eyes,

Let Three elected from this Friendly Rout, And favour'd by the growing Night, steal out, With ready Zeal the broken Mass rejoin, And to its pristine Seat the Desk confine: If in the Morn the Chanter dares destroy Our glorious Work, and damp the general Joy, Actions on Actions, Suits on Suits shall tell The Church's Spirit, and her Servants Zeal: Then Authoriz'd by Heaven you may engage; This is a War worthy a Prelate's Rage: Wou'd you to Prayer alone that Heart confine? Let your great Soul in ardent Action shine; Let a dull Country Vicar be content With a long Life in lazy Preaching spent. At Paris, Sir, You flourish2Then prepare, Be Obstinate, Vexatious, rouse to War; Be Active, Restless, Vigilant and Proud; This raises you above the Vulgar Croud;

From common Crape discriminates a Lord, And is a Prelate's Charter on Record: Then throw your Benedictions boldly round: Let every Place your Benedictions sound. Bless in the Chanters Sight, and never cease, With uplift Palms the very Chanter Bless.

This warm Oration the Assembly fir'd, And every Soul with God-like Rage inspir'd: The Prelate with uncommon Ardor mov'd, In a loud Out-cry Sidracs Speech approv'd; Let then (said he) a careful Choice be made Of Three, Three worthy this Design to head.

Each pleads his Merit to the great Command; Each Worthy seems in this illustrious Band.

Let Destiny, the Prelate then reply'd, Let Fortune by decisive Lots provide. They write; Each hopes his own Immortal Name Will rise the Foremost in this Scroll of Fame. Full thirty Names into small Billets made, Are in a Cap's round sinuous Bottom laid; And that no Fraud may their great Hopes destroy Of a just Choice, they call a Singing Boy: Young William strait the great Design attends; Blushing, his Artless Novice-hand he lends.