The Second part of The Nights Search Discovering The Condition of the various Fowles of Night. Or, The second great Mystery of Iniquity exactly revealed: With the Projects of these Times. In a Poem, By Humphrey Mill |
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To his industrious and quick-sighted friend, Mr. Humphrey Mill, upon his Night-search.
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 | The Second part of The Nights Search |  |
To his industrious and quick-sighted friend, Mr. Humphrey Mill, upon his Night-search.
Friend
Mill, thy rare descriptions I admire,
More than the Indians, when they first found fire
By clashing canes; for you by this your skill
(Downe dropping wonders from your fluent quill)
Incense the gods, in that you should aspire,
Prometheus-like, from heaven to fetch this fire:
The Indians fire, materials did combust,
But this thy fire doth purge the soule from rust:
The vicious conscience it so throughly tries,
And by mens deeds discovers what there lies.
More than the Indians, when they first found fire
By clashing canes; for you by this your skill
(Downe dropping wonders from your fluent quill)
Incense the gods, in that you should aspire,
Prometheus-like, from heaven to fetch this fire:
The Indians fire, materials did combust,
But this thy fire doth purge the soule from rust:
The vicious conscience it so throughly tries,
And by mens deeds discovers what there lies.
Should I compare thy light unto the Sun?
He never could find out what thou hast done:
Or had he spi'd it, Pimp-like he'd conceale
The fact, which honour drives thee to reveale,
Not spite. Thy hate to mankind is not such,
But that who good are, thou admit'st as much:
Such creatures then as do thy lines abhor,
Expresse themselves but what thou took'st them for:
Deluding Miscreants, living thus, did urge
Thy Genius to twist this triple scourge,
Like Pedlars wares that are sophisticate,
Hating the light, because the light brings hate:
The honest need not thou shouldst them reprove,
For t'others hate 'tis better far than love:
In this thy conscience thou dost fully cleare,
Spurning their folly which they bought so deare.
In stately measures, with thy lamp so bright,
Thou hast displaid the villanies of night.
He never could find out what thou hast done:
Or had he spi'd it, Pimp-like he'd conceale
The fact, which honour drives thee to reveale,
Not spite. Thy hate to mankind is not such,
But that who good are, thou admit'st as much:
Such creatures then as do thy lines abhor,
Expresse themselves but what thou took'st them for:
Deluding Miscreants, living thus, did urge
Thy Genius to twist this triple scourge,
Like Pedlars wares that are sophisticate,
Hating the light, because the light brings hate:
The honest need not thou shouldst them reprove,
For t'others hate 'tis better far than love:
In this thy conscience thou dost fully cleare,
Spurning their folly which they bought so deare.
In stately measures, with thy lamp so bright,
Thou hast displaid the villanies of night.
Will. Scot Gent.
| The Second part of The Nights Search | |