The Cause whose growth to crush, our Prelates wroteIn vain, almost in vain our Hero's fought.Yet by one Stabb of your keen Satyr dies:Before your Sacred Lines their Shatter'd Dagon lies.
Oh! If unworthy we appear to knowThe Sire, to whom this Lovely Birth we owe:(Deny'd our ready Homage to express,And can at best but thankfull be by guess:)This hope remains,—May David's God-like Mind,(For him 'twas wrote) the Unknown Author find:And, having found, show'r equal Favours downOn Wit so vast as cou'd oblige a Crown.N. T.
ABSA.
