Work is now generally known and esteem'd; and I having the Honour to hear Your Lordship fay, that a smaller Edition of it would be grateful to the World, immediately resolv'd upon Printing it in this Volume, of which I most humbly beg Your Acceptance, from,
Your Lordship's
Ever Obliged Servant.
JOHANNIS MILTONI.
Vi legis Amiffam Paradisum, grandia magni
Carmina Miltoni, quid nifi cuncta legis?
Res cunctas, & cunctarum primordia rerum,
Et fata, & fines continet ifte liber.
Intima panduntur magni penetralia mundi,
Scribitur & toto quicquid in Orbe latet.
Terraque, tractufque maris, cœlumque profundum
Sulphureumque Erebi, flammivomumque fpecus.
Quaque colunt terras, Pontumque & Tartara caca,
Quaque colunt fummi lucida regna Poli.
Et quodcunque ullis conclufum eft finibus ufquams
Et fine fine Chaos, & fine fine Deus:
Et fine fine magis, fi quid magis eft fine fine,
En Chrifto erga homines conciliatus amor.
Hac qui fperaret quis crederet effe futurum?
Et tamen hæc hodie terra Britanna legit.
O quantos in bella Duces! que protulit armas
Qua canit, & quanta prelia dira tuba.
Caleftes acies! atque in certamine Cœlum!
Et que Caeleftes pugna deceret agros!
Quantus in atheriis toilit fe Lucifer armis!
Atque ipfo graditur vix Michaele minor!
Quantis, & quam funeftis concurritur iris
Dum ferus hic ftellas protegit, ille rapit!
Dum vulfos Montes ceu Tela reciproca torquent,
Et non mortali defuper igne pluunt :
Stat dubius cui fe parti concedat Olympus,
Et metuit pugna non fupereffe fua.
At fimul in cælis Meffia infignia fulgent,
Et currus animes, armaque digna Des,
Horrendumque rota strident, & fæva rotarum
Erumpunt torvis fulgura luminibus,
Et flamma vibrant, & vera tonitrua ranco
Admiftis flammis infonuere Pole:
Excidit attonitis mens omnis, & impetus omnis
Et caffis dextris irrita Tela cadunt.
Ad panas fugiunt, & cen foret Orcus afylum
Infernis certant condere fe tenebris.
Cedite Romani Scriptores, cedite Graii
Et quos fama recens vel celebravit anus.
Hæc quicunque leget tantum cecinesse putabit
Maonidem ranas, Virgilium culices.
Hen I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold,
In flender Book his vaft Design unfold,
Meffiah Crown'd, God's Reconcil'd Decree,
Rebelling Angels, the Forbidden Tree,
Heav'n, Hell, Earth, Chaos, All; the Argument
Held me a while misdoubting his Intent,
That he would ruine (for I faw him strong)
The facred Truths to Fable and old Song.
(So Sampson groap'd the Temples Pofts in spight)
The World o'erwhelming to revenge his fight.
Yet as I read, foon growing less severe,
I lik'd his Project, the fuccefs did fear;
Through that wide Field how he his way should find,
O'er which lame Faith leads Understanding blind;
Left he perplex'd the things he would explain,
And what was eafie he should render vain.
Or if a Work fo infinite he spann'd,
Jealous I was that fome lefs skilful hand
(Such as difquiet always what is well,
And by ill imitating would excell)
Might hence presume the whole Creation's day
To change in Scenes, and show it in a Play.
Pardon me, mighty Poet, nor despise
My caufelefs, yet not impious, furmife.
But I am now convinc'd, and none will dare
Within thy Labours to pretend a share.
Thou haft not miss'd one thought that could be fit>
And all that was improper doft omit;
So that no room is here for Writers left,
But to detect their Ignorance or Theft.
That Majefty which through thy Work doth Reign
Draws the Devout, deterring the Profane.
And things divine thou treat'ft of in fuch state
As them preferves, and thee, inviolate.
At once delight and horror on us feife,
Thou fing'ft with fo much gravity and ease;
And above humane flight doft foar aloft
With Plume so strong, so equal, and so soft.
The Bird nam'd from that Paradife you fing
So never flags, but always keeps on Wing.
Where couldst thou words of fuch a compafs find? Whence furnish fuch a vaft expence of mind? Juft Heav'n thee like Tirefias to requite Rewards with Prophefie thy lofs of fight.
Well might'ft thou fcom thy Readers to allure With tinkling Rhime, of thy own fenfe fecure; While the Town-Bayes writes all the while and spells And like a Pack-horfe tires without his Bells: Their Fancies like our Bushy-points appear, The Poets tag them, we for fashion wear. I too tranfported by the Mode offend,
And while I meant to Praife thee muft Commend. Thy Verse created like thy Theme fublime,
In Number, Weight and Measure, needs not Rhime.
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