[28]
  “Here duly swarm prodigious wights,
  And strange variety of sights,
  As ladies lewd, and foppish knights,
  Priests, poets, pimps, and parasites;
  Which now we’ll spare, and only mention
  The hungry bard that writes for pension;
  Old Squib (who’s sometimes here, I’m told),
  That oft has with his prince made bold,
  Called the late king a saunt’ring cully,
  To magnify the Gallic bully,
  Who lately put a senseless banter
  Upon the world, with Hind and Panther,
  Making the beasts and birds o’the wood
  Doubt, what he ne’er understood,
  Deep secrets in philosophy,
  And mysteries in theology,
  All sung in wretched poetry;
  Which rumbling piece is as much farce all,
  As his true mirror, the “Rehearsal;”
  For which he has been soundly banged,
  But ha’n’t his just reward till hanged.”
Poem on the Camp at Hounslow.

[29] Extracts from “The Address of John Dryden, Laureat, to his Highness the Prince of Orange:” 

  “In all the hosannas our whole world’s applause,
  Illustrious champion of our church and laws! 
  Accept, great Nassau! from unworthy me,
  Amongst the adoring crowd, a bonded knee;
  Nor scruple, sir, to hear my echoing lyre,
  Strung, tuned, and joined to the universal choir;
  From my suspected mouth thy glories told,
  A known out-lyer from the English fold.”

After renewing the old reproach about Cromwell: 

“If thus all this I could unblushing write,
Fear not that pen that shall thy praise indite,
When high-born blood my adoration draws,
Exalted glory and unblemished cause;
A theme so all divine my muse shall wing,
What is’t for thee, great prince, I will not sing? 
No bounds shall stop my Pegasean flight,
I’ll spot my Hind, and make my Panther white.
* * * * *
But if, great prince, my feeble strength shall fail,
Thy theme I’ll to my successors entail;
My heirs the unfinished subject shall complete: 
I have a son, and he, by all that’s great,
That very son (and trust my oaths, I swore
As much to my great master James before)
Shall, by his sire’s example, Rome renounce,
For he, young stripling, has turned but once;
That Oxford nursling, that sweet hopeful boy,
His father’s and that once Ignatian joy,
Designed for a new Bellarmin Goliah,
Under the great Gamaliel, Obadiah! 
This youth, great sir, shall your fame’s trumpets blow,
And soar when my dull wings shall flag below.
* * * * *
Why should I blush to turn, when my defence
And plea’s so plain?—­for if Omnipotence
Be the highest attribute that heaven can boast,
That’s the truest church that heaven resembles most. 
The tables then are turned:  and ’tis confest,
The strongest and the mightiest is the best: 
In all my changes I’m on the right side,