40But in the sentiments of a wellpleas'd Breast.
And now (my Lord!) on Your triumphant Day,
What can Your poor unlettred Beadsman say?
Who know's that Praise, at the Poëtique rate,
Swell's to a Vice, & must deserve Your hate.
When Heav'n vouchsafe's a Miracle to mankinde,
Silence, & Wonder best express our minde.
Durst I Presume, or could Despaire (my Lord!)
I would add Here, for my owne self, one word,
That I might be (whome the World frown's uppon)