Upon Nothing: A POEM.

By the Duke of Buckingham, and the Earl of Rochefter.

N°

Othing, thou Elder-Brother, even to shade, Who had'ft a being e'er the World was made,

And well fixt alone, of ending not afraid.

E'er Time and Place were, Time and Place were not,

When primitive Nothing, Something strait begot;

Then all proceeded from the great united What!

Something, the General Attribute of all,
Sever'd from Thee its fole Original,

Into thy boundless Self, must undistinguisht fall.

Yet fomething, did thy Nothing Power command,

And from thy Fruitful Emptineffes Hand, Snatch Men, Beafts, Birds, Fire, Water, Air and Land,

Matter, the wicked'ft Off-fpring of thy Race,
By Form affifted, fled from thy Embrace,
And Rebel Light, obscur'd thy Rev'rend dusky
Face.

With Form and Matter, Time and Place did

joyn;

Body, thy Foe, with thefe did Leagues combine,

To spoil thy Peaceful Reign, and ruin all thy

Line.

But Turn-Coat Time, affifts the Foe amain, And brib'd by Thee, destroys their short-liv'd Reign,

And to thy hungry Womb, drives back thy
Slayes again.

Thy Mysteries are hid from Laick Eyes,
And the Divine alone by warrant pries
Into thy Bofom, where the Truth in private lies.

Yet this of thee, the Wife may truly fay,
Thou from the Virtuous, nothing tak'ft away,
And to be part of thee, the Wicked wifely Pray.

Great Negative! how vainly would the Wife
Enquire, Defign, Diftinguifh, Teach, Devife,
Did'ft not thou stand to point their Blind Phi-
lofophies.

Is, or is not, the Two great Ends of Fate,
Of True or Falfe, the Subject of Debate,
That perfects or deftroys defigns of State?

When they have rackt the Politicians Breast,
Within thy Bofom moft fecurely Reft,
Reduc'd to Thee are leaft, tho' fafe and beft.

But

But Nothing, why doth Something ftill permit, That Sacred Monarchs fhould at Council fit With Persons thought, at best, for Nothing fit?

Whilft weighty Something, modeftly abstains From Princes Courts, and from our States-mens Brains;

And Nothing there like ftately Nothing Reigns. Nothing, that dwells with Fools, in grave dif guife,

For whom they Rev'rend Forms &Shapes devife, Lawn Sleeves, Furs, Gowns, when they like thee look Wife.

French Truth, Dutch Prowels, British Policy, Hybernian Learning, Scotch Fidelity,

Spaniards Difpatch, Danes Wit are mainly feen

in Thee.

The Great Mans Gratitude to his beft Friend, Kings Promifes, Whores Vows, tow'rds thee bend,

Flow Swiftly into Thee, and in thee ever End.

A Tryal of the Poets for the Bays, in Imitation of a Satyr in Boileau.

By the Duke of Buckingham, and the Earl of Rochester.

"

Ince the Sons of the Mufes grew num rous and loud,

For th' appealing fo Factious, and Clam'rous a Croud,

K 4

Apollo

Apollo thought fit, in so weighty a Cause, T'Establish a Government, Leader, and Laws. The Hopes of the Bays, at the fummoning Call, Had drawn them together, the Devil and All All thronging and liftning, they gap'd for the Bleffing:

No Presbyter Sermon had more crowding and preffing:

In the head of the Gang, John Dryden appear'd, ThatAncient GraveWit fo long lov'd and fear'd, But Apollo had heard a Story ith' Town,

Of his quitting the Mafes, to wear the black Gown;

And so gave him leave now his Poetry's done, To let him turn Prieft fince R- is turn'd Nun. This Reverend Author was no fooner fet by, But Apollo had got gentle George in his Eye. And frankly confeft, of all Men that writ, There's none had more Fancy, Senfe, Judgment, and Wit:

But in th'crying Sin, Idleness, he was so hardn'd That his long Seven Years Silence, was not to be pardon'd.

-W-y was the next Man fhew'd his Face, But Apollo e'en thought him too good for the place;

No Gentleman Writer that Office should bear,
But a Trader in Wit the Lawrel fhould wear,
As none but a Cit- e'er makes a Lord Mayor.
Next into the Crowd, Tom Shadwell does wal-
low,

And fwears by his Guts, his Paunch, and his
Tallow,

That

That'tis he alone beft pleases the Age,
Himself, and his Wife, have fupported the Stage:
Apollo well pleas'd with fo bonny a Lad,
T'oblige him, he told him, he should be huge
glad,

Had he Half fo much Wit, as he fanfi'd he had.
Nat. Lee ftept in next, in hopes of a Prize,
Apollo remember'd he had hit once in thrice
By the Rubies in's Face, he could not deny,
But he had as much Wit as Wine could fupply;
Confeft that indeed he had a Mufical Note,
But sometimes strain'd fo hard that he rattled
ith' Throat;

Yet owning he had Senfe, t'encourage him för't, He made him his Ovid in Auguftus's Court. Poet Settle, his Tryal was the next came about, He brought him an Ibrahim with the Preface torn out,

And humbly defir'd he might give no offence: Dam him, cries Shadwell, he cannot write Sense: And B--ll--cks, cry'd Newport, I hate that dull Rogue;

Apollo confidering he was not in Vogue, Would not truft his dear Bays with fo modeft a Fool

And bid the great Boy fhould be fent back to
School.

Tom Otway came next, Tom Shadwell's dear Zany,
And fwears, for Heroicks, he writes beft of any;
Don Carlos his Pockets fo amply had fill'd,
That his Mange was quite cur'd, and his Lice
were all kill'd

Ana