 | Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique |  |
177
On the hopeful R. Baron of Grayes Inn Esq; 1647.
Baron
of wit! 'twere sin to blazon forth
Under a meaner style, thy mighty worth:
'Twere but a trick of state, if we should bring
The Muses Lower-house to Vote thee King,
Thou highly doest deserve it, and the Bayes
Should crown thy brows to thine Eternal prayes.
Whilst usher'd by the graces thou are sent,
To sit as King, ith' Poets Parliament.
Under a meaner style, thy mighty worth:
'Twere but a trick of state, if we should bring
The Muses Lower-house to Vote thee King,
Thou highly doest deserve it, and the Bayes
Should crown thy brows to thine Eternal prayes.
Whilst usher'd by the graces thou are sent,
To sit as King, ith' Poets Parliament.
The famous Sidney's soul (I think) had gon
A Relict till the Resurrection,
And never been espous'd, now had not she
Round out her match, and wedded been to thee.
A Relict till the Resurrection,
And never been espous'd, now had not she
Round out her match, and wedded been to thee.
We have some things call'd Poets who although
They ne're were versed beyond the Christ-cross Row
And never swallow'd possum, think th'are able
To be partakers at the Muses-Table
Who ne're inspir'd were by the Nine Sisters
But took their Learning as folks do their Glysters
And should you come to tell them what you lack
Their wits (like ware ill-plac't in Pedlars pack)
They have, but know not where; perhaps their bundle
May yeild a ballad for the Widow Trundle
Or some such business wherein is shewn
A mournful Ditty, to the pleasant tune
Fortune my Foe: or else-pox what d'yee call it?
When th'ave no more conceit then has a Mallet.
But from their spungy Brains may squeese a sonnet,
When th'ave a fortnight chew'd their Cud upon it.
They ne're were versed beyond the Christ-cross Row
178
To be partakers at the Muses-Table
Who ne're inspir'd were by the Nine Sisters
But took their Learning as folks do their Glysters
And should you come to tell them what you lack
Their wits (like ware ill-plac't in Pedlars pack)
They have, but know not where; perhaps their bundle
May yeild a ballad for the Widow Trundle
Or some such business wherein is shewn
A mournful Ditty, to the pleasant tune
Fortune my Foe: or else-pox what d'yee call it?
When th'ave no more conceit then has a Mallet.
But from their spungy Brains may squeese a sonnet,
When th'ave a fortnight chew'd their Cud upon it.
And shall such clumsi'd humors ever be
Renowned with the Name of Poetrie!
No, 'twere a sin beyond a pardon, you
Deserve the Poets Name, and Laureat too.
Renowned with the Name of Poetrie!
No, 'twere a sin beyond a pardon, you
Deserve the Poets Name, and Laureat too.
179
Thy Book swels high, thy Line's well wrought! not weak!
Thy words might teach Apollo how to speak
In better Phrase, which had he done like thee,
Daphne had ne're been turn'd into a Tree.
Thy twisted Plot so nice a hand hath spun
You'd think, it were not only made but done
And you would not believe me, should I tel
How soon this work was done when 'tis so well.
Go on (Dear friend) enlarge thy spreading Fame,
And let thy Pen mortallize thy Name.
Thy words might teach Apollo how to speak
In better Phrase, which had he done like thee,
Daphne had ne're been turn'd into a Tree.
Thy twisted Plot so nice a hand hath spun
You'd think, it were not only made but done
And you would not believe me, should I tel
How soon this work was done when 'tis so well.
Go on (Dear friend) enlarge thy spreading Fame,
And let thy Pen mortallize thy Name.
| Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique | |