HE that would aptly write of warlike men, Should make his ink of blood, a sword his pen; At least he must their memories abuse, Who writes with less than Maro's mighty Muse: All, Sir, that I could say of this great theme (The brave Montluc) would lessen his esteem; Whose laurels too much native verdure have To need the praises vulgar chaplets crave: His own bold hand, what it durst write, durst do, Grappled with enemies, and oblivion too; Hew'd his own monument, and grav'd thereon Its deep and durable inscription. To you, Sir, whom the valiant Author owes His second life, and conquest o'er his foes -- Ill-natur'd foes, Time and Detraction, -- What is a stranger's contribution! Who has not such a share of vanity, To dream that one, who with such industry Obliges all the world, can be oblig'd by me. |