In praise we nobly give what God may take,
And are without a beggar’s blush forgiv’n.
Its utmost force, like powder’s, is unknown;
And tho’ weak kings excess of Praise may fear,
Yet when ’tis here, like powder, dangerous grown,
Heav’n’s vault receives what would the palace tear.
The last thought will be termed, in this cold age, a conceit; and so may every thing that distinguishes wit and poetry from plain sense and prose.
The wonders of the house of Astragon are not yet exhausted.
To Astragon heaven for succession gave
One only pledge, and Birtha was her name.