Classic Poem

PPROLOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 1681

The fam'd Italian Muse, whose rhymes advance
Orlando and the Paladins of France,
Records that, when our wit and sense is flown,
'T is lodg'd within the circle of the moon
In earthen jars, which one, who thither soar'd,
Set to his nose, snuff'd up, and was restor'd.
Whate'er the story be, the moral 's true;
The wit we lost in town we find in you.
Our poets their fled parts may draw from hence,
And fill their windy heads with sober sense.
When London votes with Southwark's disagree,
Here may they find their long-lost loyalty.
Here busy senates, to th' old cause inclin'd,
May snuff the votes their fellows left behind:
Your country neighbors, when their grain grows dear,
May come, and find their last provision here:
Whereas we cannot much lament our loss.
Who neither carried back, nor brought one cross.
We look'd what representatives would bring;
But they help'd us, just as they did the king.
Yet we despair not, for we now lay forth
The Sibyl's books to those who know their worth;
And tho' the first was sacrific'd before,
These volumes doubly will the price restore.
Our poet bade us hope this grace to find,
To whom by long prescription you are kind.
He whose undaunted Muse, with loyal rage,
Has never spar'd the vices of the age,
Here finding nothing that his spleen can raise,
Is forc'd to turn his satire into praise.