 | Men-Miracles |  |
To the Author on his Poems.
Cleane Braine in cleaner numbers clos'd.Sence neither Painted, nor Expos'd;
Wit nor unbent, nor yet ore-stretcht;
Borne in each Poem, never fetcht;
Things of a deepe uncommon marke,
Beyond course eyes, on this side darke;
Things writ to All too, as to th' Best,
At once a Dole of Wit, and Feast:
Words thy minds Tiffany imploy'd
To cloth thy matter not to Hide:
Which by their Genuine fitnesse tell,
T' expresse is not to sound and knell,
Poems as cold and cleane as snow,
Chast lines, and frigid onely so,
Yet sprung from youth, shap't out to win
(So th' Author Pens against his Chin,)
Bayes bred from Thunder and Alarmes,
Th' whole, as thy Satyr, borne in Armes,
Verse-Rules let downe like th' Hebrew Yoke,
And Wit-Lawes given in Noise and Smoake:
These are so thine, high freind, that I
Thy merits power cannot deny,
Vainely to adde my sprig of Bayes,
When the Book's writ in the Book's praise.
J. H.
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