To the Bishop of Rochester, upon His Account of the Whiggish Conspiracy

WITH humble hopes Your goodness will excuse
The hasty Zeal of an Aspiring Muse.
I with unequal steps Your pace persue
And thought I trod Securely following You
Repenting now like Phaeton too late
I feebly sink beneath the glorious weight
And find the Work for all but You too great.

The hand that rivall'd Heav'n took thence it's fire
E'er He the senseless Machine cou'd Inspire
And the rash Author wou'd Attempt in vain
(Unless he borrow'd Your Diviner Pen)
To imitate or Praise with equal flight
What only Charles cou'd Dictate only You cou'd write.

If Troubles past by repetition please
Tho meaner Tongues Your grateful Tale express
What Joys, what raptures, must those Ills create
Which bravely, as he conquer'd, You relate.
Our Joys, without our Sufferings, had been less
And for Your Remedy the wound we bless
So, did not Catilines defeated rage
Your much lov'd Tully's daring Pen engage
His Rome wou'd want one Glory of his tongue
The World a Masterpiece, and Fame a Song.