Touching upon th’ unhospitable Coast, Good Laws bestow’d for our wild Freedom lost; With Arts of Peace our stubborn Soil manur’d, And naked Limbs from Frost and Sun secur’d:  —­But ah’ how dear the Price of all we gain! } What Shoals of Vices with ’em cross’d the Main? } What Pride, what Luxury, a foul, an odious Train? } Who weighs, like Galcacus, the Good with Ill, Would wish they’d let us been Barbarians still:  Such thankless Pains Ignatian Firebrands take 660 An honest Pagan spoil, and a bad Christian make.  Blest be kind Heav’n, which wrap’d me in a Gown, And drew me early from the fatal Town!  And blest Her Name, to endless Ages blest, Who gave my weary Muse this calm Retreat and Rest.  True to my God, my Country, and my Friend, } Here, may I Life, not wholly useless, spend, } Steal through the World, and smiling meet my End! } I envy not Great Dryden’s loftier Strain } Of Arms and Men design’d to entertain, } 670 Princes and Courts, so I but please the Plain:  } Nor would I barter Profit for Delight, Nor would have writ like him, like him to write.  If there’s Hereafter, and a last Great Day, What Fire’s enough to purge his Stains away?  How will he wish each lewd applauded Line } Which makes Vice pleasing, and Damnation shine, } Had been as dull as honest Quarles or mine! } With sixty Years of Lewdness rest content!  It mayn’t be yet too late, O yet Repent! 680 Ev’n Thee our injur’d Altar will receive; While yet there’s Hopes fly to its Arms and live!  So shall for Thee their Harps the Angels string, And the Returning Prodigal shall sing; New Joys through all the Heav’nly Host be shown In Numbers only sweeter than thy own.  CONGREVE from Ireland wond’ring we receive, } Would he the Town’s loose way of Writing leave, } More Worth than all their Forfeit Lands will give:  } Justness of Thought, a Courtly Style, and clear, 690 And well-wrought Passions in his Works appear:  None knows with finer Strokes our Souls to move, And as he please we smile, or weep, or love.  When Dryden goes, ’tis he must fill the Chair, With Congreve only Congreve can compare.  Yet, tho he natural is as untaught Loves, His Style as smooth as Cytherea’s Doves, When e’er unbyass’d Judges read him o’er, He sometimes nodds, as Homer did before: