With a Superior and victorious Grace
The sacred Place,
He did almost unenvy'd assume,
I, pleas'd to see the Branches spread
O're his triumphant Head,
From th'  Spring
Did Water bring,
Sprinkled them oft that they might ever bloom.
But, oh! they cou'd not stand the Rage,
Of an ill-natur'd and Lethargick Age,
Who spight of  wou'd  be Wise,
All noble Raptures, Extasies despise,
And only Plodders after Sense will Prize.
They from his meritorious Brow
Th' exalted Laurel tear,
Which none but he could justly wear,
And He must suffer  too.