 | Men-Miracles |  |
To the Author.
Did thy Wine need my Bush, I'de freely spendA leafe,—In praise of my ingenious Freind,
The Author. Where ther's none we must lend weight,
So Dwarfes from Wooden heeles do borrow height.
But thine are Poëms apter to defie
A Censure, then implore an Eulogie.
Unlesse, in those more circumcised Climes
That damne all Poetry but Psalmes and Chymes.
He that shall read and shall not like them well,
Write him thy three and twentieth Miracle.
In every sheet I veiw, methinks! see
Thy Cartwrights Ghost appeare; For such was he.
A Wit well managed; exactly broke
To every Pace, and of that t' every stroke.
Not thorough pac't; for so are some; Confin'd
To Feet, and Measures only of one kind:
And ta'ne from that, they are as farr to seeke,
As an Assembly man 'would be at Greeke:
But equally to every Sort ally'de,
And can from One into the Other slide.
Alike to th' Satyr, and to th' Pastorall.
And is as proper, where 't is not so Tall:
Go forth and Live, thou'lt stand an evidence
This Age had wit; pray God the next have Sence.
W. B.
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