Olor Iscanus A Collection of some Select Poems, and Translations, Formerly written by Mr. Henry Vaughan Silurist. Published by a Friend |
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Vpon the following Poems. |
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 | Olor Iscanus |  |
Vpon the following Poems.
I write not here, as if thy last in store
Of learned friends, 'tis known that thou hast more;
Who, were they told of this, would find a way
To rise a guard of Poets without pay,
And bring as many hands to thy Edition,
As th'City should unto their May'rs Petition,
But thou wouldst none of this, lest it should be
Thy Muster rather, than our Courtesie,
Thou wouldst not beg as Knights do, and appeare
Poet by Voice, and suffrage of the Shire,
That were enough to make my Muse advance
Amongst the Crutches, nay it might enhance
Our Charity, and we should think it fit
The State should build an Hospital for wit.
Of learned friends, 'tis known that thou hast more;
Who, were they told of this, would find a way
To rise a guard of Poets without pay,
And bring as many hands to thy Edition,
As th'City should unto their May'rs Petition,
But thou wouldst none of this, lest it should be
Thy Muster rather, than our Courtesie,
Thou wouldst not beg as Knights do, and appeare
Poet by Voice, and suffrage of the Shire,
That were enough to make my Muse advance
Amongst the Crutches, nay it might enhance
Our Charity, and we should think it fit
The State should build an Hospital for wit.
But here needs no reliefe: Thy richer Verse
Creates all Poets, that can but reherse,
And they, like Tenants better'd by their land,
Should pay thee Rent for what they understand,
Thou art not of that lamentable Nation,
Who make a blessed Alms of approbation,
Whose fardel-notes are Briefes in ev'ry thing,
But, that they are not licens'd By the King.
Without such scrape-requests thou dost come forth
Arm'd (though I speak it) with thy proper worth,
And needest not this noise of friends, for wee
Write out of love, not thy necessitie;
And though this sullen age possessed be
With some strange Desamour, to Poetrie,
Yet I suspect (thy fancy so delights)
The Puritans will turn thy Proselytes,
And that thy flame when once abroad it shines,
Will bring thee as many friends, as thou hast lines.
Creates all Poets, that can but reherse,
And they, like Tenants better'd by their land,
Should pay thee Rent for what they understand,
Who make a blessed Alms of approbation,
Whose fardel-notes are Briefes in ev'ry thing,
But, that they are not licens'd By the King.
Without such scrape-requests thou dost come forth
Arm'd (though I speak it) with thy proper worth,
And needest not this noise of friends, for wee
Write out of love, not thy necessitie;
And though this sullen age possessed be
With some strange Desamour, to Poetrie,
Yet I suspect (thy fancy so delights)
The Puritans will turn thy Proselytes,
And that thy flame when once abroad it shines,
Will bring thee as many friends, as thou hast lines.
Eugenius Philalethes Oxoniensis.
| Olor Iscanus | |