The Poems of Thomas Pestell Edited with an account of his life and work by Hannah Buchan |
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On Mr. Bancroft his Glutton's Fever. |
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 | The Poems of Thomas Pestell |  |
On Mr. Bancroft his Glutton's Fever.
In Bosworth-feild the white-rose redd in blood,The redd grew white; and thence grew all our good,
Sweet princes, and sweet peace; all joyes that fill
All angles of this Isle. On Ambeame hill
Our Caesar's garland grew; wherin he sitts
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Our (but unwanton, untempestuous) Jove,
Our tow'ring Eagle, and our stouping Dove.
This is, and shall be, Chronicle: but till
This howre I never heard of Bancroft's hill,
Or Muses' springs therin; nor could I dreame
From Bosworth schole to reade so riche a theame.
A man obscure, an usher to do this;
This polisht worke, this more than master-piece.
But wonders are not wonders in the raigne
Of our Augustus, peaceful Charle-le-maine.
For which (as once that conquering Richmond hadd
The crowne of golde) some abler hand might add
A wreath of bayes to thy victorious browe,
Which to my powre I here present thee now.
And first salute thee Poet; and that name
From me, strikes Envy blind, and Malice lame.
Reading thy strains, methinks I heard the same
From him that was our Academies' shame;
Our pullpitts' glorie; and I would be glad
Our plain-song priests but halph thy descant had:
They then, although they liv'd and died in prose,
Might use their tongues, and not misuse their nose.
How shall I name thy fabrick? A free-schole
For court and country: New Bethesday's poole;
Where bedd-ridd soules despairing, coucht in synn,
Helpt by thy hand, and by thy penne put in,
After a motion of repentant teares,
Catch angell thoughts, and lose their devilish feares.
Call it a beacon, or a larum-bell;
Another arke, where all within are well;
The hovering dove, from waterie wildernesse
Comes here in peace, hir wearie wings to dresse;
But carrion crowes, the gluttons' brotherhood,
That never lawe nor prophets understood;
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Or else account it but a puppet play.
O reade it once, twice; if your hearts it wound,
Reade it againe, and it will sett you sound.
Dives himselfe in hell, might he but looke
And reade, might yet be saved by his booke.
| The Poems of Thomas Pestell | |