Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

What need these busie wits? who hath a Mine
His own, thus rich, needs not the scatter'd shine
Of lesser heaps: Day dims a Tapers light
and Lamps are uselesse where there is no night

Why this train of writers? forraign Verse
Can adde no honour to a Poet's hearse,
VVhose every line which he to paper lent,
Builds for himself a lasting Monument.
Brave Verse this priviledge hath; though all be dumb,
That is the Authors Epitaph and Tomb.
Which when ambitious Pyles, th'ostents of Pride
To dust shall fall, and in their ruins hide
Their then no more remembred Founders name:
These (like Apollo ever young) shall fame
The first composer, whose weigh'd works shall tell
VVhat noble thoughts did in his bosome dwell.

But now I find the cause: they that do praise
Desert in others, for themselves plant Bayes:
For he that praises merit loves it, thus
Hee's good, for goodnesse that's solicitous.
Else, though He diamonds keenly pointed write,
Thay but proclaim a quainter Hypocrite:
Thus in the future it shall honour be,
Thet men shall read their names bound up with thee.
So Countery Moles that would at Court appear
Intrude some Camels train that does live there.
So Creatures that had drown'd else, did imbark
With Noah, and liv'd by being in his Ark

Or if not thus; as when in royall state
Nobles attend Kings to inagurate:
Or as last year when you both Courts did see
Beget joyes noon in 'th' Vniversity;
All the learn'd tribe in reverend Habits meet,
As if the Schools were turnd into the street;
VVhere each one strove such duty to put on,
As might give honour to their own Suns Sun.
Such honour here our dimmer pens would have,

In pomp to wait him to his solemn grave:
Since what he was, his own fruits better show,
Then those which planted here by others grow.
Rich jewels in themselves such lustre cast,
As gold about them, is no grace but wast.

Such was his Genius, like the quick eyes wink,
He could write sooner then another think.
His play was Fancies flame, a lightning wit,
So shot, that it could sooner pierce then hit.
What e're he pleas'd, though but in sport to prove,
Appear'd as true, as pity dwells with love.
Had he said thus, That discreet zeale might stand
Both with the Jesuite, and the Puritan,
T'had been believ'd; That frost from heat proceeds,
That chastity from ease, and fulnesse breeds;
That women ought to woo, as Eve at first
Woo'd Man, to make the world, and man accurst;
All would be taken up for truth: and sense
Which knew truth coming, would not going hence.

Had he maintain'd Rich Lucans work had been
Meer History; there would no pen be seen
To call it Poem: If for Cæsar stood,
Great Pompey should be neither weak, nor Good:
Oh! had he liv'd to plead the craggy Law,
Which now unsetled holds the world in awe;
He would have met some Ostracisme, I fear,
Lest he had charm'd the purple Judge to erre.

Nor could he only in his natve speech
Robe his ripe thoughts; but even the Copious, Rich,
And lofty Greek, with Latine, did appear
In him, as Orient in their proper sphear:
That when in them, himself he pleas'd t'expresse,
The ravisht hearer could not but confesse,

He might as well old Rome, Athens Claim,
For birth, as Britain, circl'd with the Main.
Tis true, we have these languages still left;
But spoken, as Apparrell got by theft.
Is worn: disguis'd, and shadowed; Had he
Liv'd but with us, till grave maturity;
Though we should ever in his change have lost,
We might have gain'd enough whereof to boast.
Our nations better Genius; but now
Our hopes are nip'ter' they began to blow.
And sure I am, his losse must needs strike deep,
For whom in verse, thus Englands eye doth weep.
VVhose tears thus dew'd upon his mournful dust
I will not longer trouble. They that must
Carp though at best things, let them onely read:
These Poems here will strike that humour dead.
VVhich I should praise too: but in them I see
There is one blemish, for he hath nam'd me:
Else, Ile not think tbe Reader so distrest
In wit, but that he will admire the rest.
Concluding thence though in his forenoon-youth,
(And what I now shall write is modest truth,)
He knows not him, who doth so much excell,
That could so quickly, do so much, so well.