And languish'd in strange numbers, not his own.
Nor stopt his Usage here;
For what escap'd in Wisdom's ancient Rhimes
Was murder'd o're and o're in the Composer's Chimes.
What praises Purcell to thy Skill are due,
Who hast to Judah's Monarch been so true?
By thee he moves our Hearts, by thee he reigns,
By thee shakes off the old inglorious Chains,
And sees new Honours done to his immortal strains.
Not Italy, the Mother of each Art,