II.

Though our best notes are treason to his fame, Joined with the loud applause of public voice; Since heaven, what praise we offer to his name, Hath rendered too authentic by its choice.

Though in his praise no arts can liberal be, Since they, whose muses have the highest flown, Add not to his immortal memory, But do an act of friendship to their own:

Yet 'tis our duty, and our interest too, Such monuments as we can build to raise; Lest all the world prevent what we should do, And claim a title in him by their praise.

How shall I then begin, or where conclude, To draw a fame so truly circular? For in a round, what order can be shewed, Where all the parts so equal perfect are?

His grandeur he derived from heaven alone; For he was great, ere fortune made him so: And wars, like mists that rise against the sun, Made him but greater seem, not greater grow.

No borrowed bays his temples did adorn, But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring; Nor was his virtue poisoned soon as born, With the too early thoughts of being king.

Fortune, (that easy mistress to the young, But to her ancient servants coy and hard,) Him at that age her favourites ranked among, When she her best-loved Pompey did discard.[10]

He, private, marked the faults of others' sway, And set as sea-marks for himself to shun; Not like rash monarchs, who their youth betray By acts their age too late would wish undone.

And yet dominion was not his design; We owe that blessing, not to him, but heaven, Which to fair acts unsought rewards did join; Rewards, that less to him, than us, were given.