 | Carolina |  |
SPRING and AUTUMN.
1678.
To that hopeful Gentleman, Jo. Howe, Esq; In answer to the fore-going Verses.
The fruitful Trees, that shade the Southern Climes,
Are like the blooming fancies in your Rhymes.
Where Spring, and Autumn, in one season meet,
The fruit delicious, and the blossoms sweet.
You need no Guardian, but Apollo's care;
And that which makes you bud, will make you bear.
Fruits, with such early Sun-shine grac'd, must grow,
And bear, and flourish, and no blastings know.
Secure from Criticks—their sharp frosty Air
Serves but to nip your Lady-Muse more fair.
Their Ginns, and Censures are but needless found:
Snares useless are for Birds that scorn the ground.
Are like the blooming fancies in your Rhymes.
Where Spring, and Autumn, in one season meet,
The fruit delicious, and the blossoms sweet.
You need no Guardian, but Apollo's care;
And that which makes you bud, will make you bear.
Fruits, with such early Sun-shine grac'd, must grow,
And bear, and flourish, and no blastings know.
Secure from Criticks—their sharp frosty Air
Serves but to nip your Lady-Muse more fair.
Their Ginns, and Censures are but needless found:
Snares useless are for Birds that scorn the ground.
Your youthful Muse deserves the choicest note:
So Essences are from first-runnings got.
Last droppings make but Taplash, such as mine;
Your's is the boiling blood o'th' lusty Vine.
You shine like Planets (those rich Lords of Light)
Out-braving us mean Commons of the Night.
I've scribled out my Helicon—, afraid
The Issue in my Arm has drain'd my Head.
Your praise is, Pension-like, on me bestow'd;
Old, and decrepit now, that does no good.
By such advances tho, I keep in sight:
Thus can the Moon gild o're the gloomy night.
The Name I've wrongly got else soon will fail;
Tho Hillocks may seem Mountains in the Vale.
So Essences are from first-runnings got.
Last droppings make but Taplash, such as mine;
Your's is the boiling blood o'th' lusty Vine.
You shine like Planets (those rich Lords of Light)
Out-braving us mean Commons of the Night.
I've scribled out my Helicon—, afraid
The Issue in my Arm has drain'd my Head.
200
Old, and decrepit now, that does no good.
By such advances tho, I keep in sight:
Thus can the Moon gild o're the gloomy night.
The Name I've wrongly got else soon will fail;
Tho Hillocks may seem Mountains in the Vale.
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