The Petition of Charles Cocksure, which the Petitioner styles very reasonable—­Rejected.

The Memorial of Philander, which he desires may be dispatched out of Hand, Postponed.

I desire S.  R. not to repeat the Expression under the Sun so often in his next Letter.

The Letter of P.  S. who desires either to have it printed entire, or committed to the Flames. Not to be printed entire.

[Footnote 1:  Charles Lillie published, in 1725, ’Original and Genuine Letters sent ’to the Tatler and Spectator during the time those Works were publishing, none of which have been before printed.’]

* * * * *

No. 620.  Monday, November 15, 1714.  Tickell.

  ‘Hic Vir, hic est, tibi quem promitti saepius audis.’

  Virg.

Having lately presented my Reader with a Copy of Verses full of the False Sublime, I shall here communicate to him an excellent Specimen of the True:  Though it hath not yet been published, the judicious Reader will readily discern it to be the Work of a Master:  And if he hath read that noble Poem on The Prospect of Peace, he will not be at a Loss to guess at the Author.

[The ROYAL PROGRESS.]

  ’When_ BRUNSWICK first appear’d, each honest Heart,
  Intent on Verse, disdain’d the Rules of Art;
  For him the Songsters, in unmeasur’d Odes,
  Debas’d Alcides, and dethron’d the Gods,
  In Golden Chains the Kings of India led,
  Or rent the Turban from the Sultan’s Head. 
  One, in old Fables, and the Pagan Strain,
  With Nymphs and Tritons, wafts him o’er the Main;
  Another draws fierce Lucifer in Arms,
  And fills th’ Infernal Region with Alarms;
  A Third awakes some Druid, to foretel
  Each future Triumph from his dreary Cell. 
  Exploded Fancies! that in vain deceive,
  While the Mind nauseates what she can’t believe. 
  My [Muse th’ expected [1]] Hero shall pursue
  From Clime to Clime, and keep him still in View;
  His shining March describe in faithful Lays,
  Content to paint him, nor presume to praise;
  Their Charms, if Charms they have, the Truth supplies,
  And from the Theme unlabour’d Beauties rise.

  By longing Nations for the Throne design’d,
  And call’d to guard the Rights of Human-kind;
  With secret Grief his God-like Soul repines,
  And_ Britain’s Crown with joyless Lustre shines,
  While Prayers and Tears his destin’d Progress stay,
  And Crowds of Mourners choak their Sovereign’s Way. 
  Not so he march’d, when Hostile Squadrons stood
  In Scenes of Death, and fir’d his generous Blood;
  When his hot Courser paw’d th’ Hungarian Plain,
  And adverse Legions stood the Shock in vain.