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, It's deep and durable inscription. To you (Sir) whom the valiant Author owes, His second Life, and Conquest o're 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.
