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The hoary Prince in Majeſty appear'd,
High on a Throne of his own Labours rear'd.
At his right hand our young Aſcanius ſat,
Rome's other Hope, and Pillar of the State.
His Brows thick Fogs, inſtead of Glories, grace,
And lambent Dulneſs play'd around his Face.
As Hannibal did to the Altars come,
Sworn by his Syre a mortal Foe to Rome;
So Sh— ſwore, nor ſhou'd his Vow be vain,
That he till Death true Dulneſs wou'd maintain;
And in his Father's Right, and Realms defence,
Ne'er to have Peace with Wit, nor Truce with Senſe.
The King himſelf the ſacred Unction made,
As King by Office, and as Prieſt by Trade:
In his ſiniſter hand, inſtead of Ball,
He plac'd a mighty Mug of potent Ale;
Love's Kingdom to his Right he did convey,
At once his Scepter and his Rule of Sway;
Whoſe righteous Lore the Prince had pra{ct}}is'd young,
And from whoſe Loins recorded Pſyche ſprung.
His Temples laſt with Poppies were o'erſpread,
That nodding ſeem'd to conſecrate his Head:
Juſt at that point of time, if Fame not lye,
On his left hand twelve reverend Owls did fly.
So Romulus, 'tis ſung, by Tyber's Brook,
Preſage of Sway from twice ſix Vultures took.
Th' admiring Throng loud Acclamations make,
And Omens of his future Empire take.
The Syre then ſhook the Honours of his Head,
And from his Brows damps of Oblivion ſhed
| Full on the filial Dullneſs: long he ſtood, | 
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| Repelling from his Breaſt the raging God; | 
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| At length burſt out in this prophetick mood: | 
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Heavens bleſs my Son, from Ireland let him reign
To farr Barbadoes on the Weſtern Main;
Of his Dominion may no End be known,
And greater than his Father's be his Throne.
