Olor Iscanus A Collection of some Select Poems, and Translations, Formerly written by Mr. Henry Vaughan Silurist. Published by a Friend |
 |
|
In Amicum fœneratorem.
|
 | Olor Iscanus |  |
In Amicum fœneratorem.
Thanks mighty Silver! I rejoyce to see
How I have spoyl'd his thrift, by spending thee.
Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with more,
His Decoy gold, and bribes me to restore.
As lesser lode-stones with the North consent
Naturally moving to their Element,
As bodyes swarm to th'Center, and that fire
Man stole from heaven, to heav'n doth still aspire,
So this vast crying summe drawes in a lesse,
And hence this bag more Northward layd I guesse,
For 'tis of Pole-star force, and in this sphere
Though th'least of many rules the master-bear.
Prerogative of debts! how he doth dresse
His messages in Chink? not an Expresse
Without a fee for reading, and 'tis fit,
For gold's the best restorative of wit,
O how he gilds them o'r! with what delight
I read those lines, where Angels doe Indite.
How I have spoyl'd his thrift, by spending thee.
Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with more,
His Decoy gold, and bribes me to restore.
As lesser lode-stones with the North consent
Naturally moving to their Element,
As bodyes swarm to th'Center, and that fire
Man stole from heaven, to heav'n doth still aspire,
So this vast crying summe drawes in a lesse,
And hence this bag more Northward layd I guesse,
For 'tis of Pole-star force, and in this sphere
Though th'least of many rules the master-bear.
Prerogative of debts! how he doth dresse
His messages in Chink? not an Expresse
Without a fee for reading, and 'tis fit,
For gold's the best restorative of wit,
O how he gilds them o'r! with what delight
I read those lines, where Angels doe Indite.
6
But wilt have money Og? must I dispurse?
Will nothing serve thee but a Poets curse?
Wilt rob an Altar thu? and sweep at once
What Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones?
'Twill never swell thy Bag, nor ring one peale
In thy dark Chest. Talk not of Shreeves, or gaole,
I fear them not. I have no land to glutt
Thy durty appetite, and make thee strutt
Nimrod of acres; I'le no Speech prepare
To court the Hopefull Cormorant, thine heire.
Yet there's a Kingdome, at thy beck, if thou
But kick this drosse, Parnassus flowrie brow
I'le give thee with my Tempe, and to boot
That horse which struck a fountain with his foot.
A Bed of Roses I'le provide for thee,
And Chrystal Springs shall drop thee melodie;
The breathing shades wee'l haunt, where ev'ry leafe
Shall whisper us asleep, though thou art deafe;
Those waggish Nymph too which none ever yet
Durst make love to, wee'l teach the Loving fit,
Wee'l suck the Corall of their lips, and feed
Upon their spicie breath, a meale at need,
Rove in their Amber-tresses, and unfold
That glist'ring grove, the Curled wood of gold,
Then peep for babies, a new Puppet-play,
And riddle what their pratling Eyes would say.
But here thou must remember to dispurse,
For without money all this is a Curse,
Thou must for more bags call, and so restore
This Iron-age to gold, as once before;
This thou must doe, and yet this is not all,
For thus the Poet would be still in thrall,
Thou must then (if live thus) my neast of honey,
Cancell old bonds, and beg to lend more money.
Will nothing serve thee but a Poets curse?
Wilt rob an Altar thu? and sweep at once
What Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones?
'Twill never swell thy Bag, nor ring one peale
In thy dark Chest. Talk not of Shreeves, or gaole,
I fear them not. I have no land to glutt
Thy durty appetite, and make thee strutt
Nimrod of acres; I'le no Speech prepare
To court the Hopefull Cormorant, thine heire.
Yet there's a Kingdome, at thy beck, if thou
But kick this drosse, Parnassus flowrie brow
I'le give thee with my Tempe, and to boot
That horse which struck a fountain with his foot.
A Bed of Roses I'le provide for thee,
And Chrystal Springs shall drop thee melodie;
The breathing shades wee'l haunt, where ev'ry leafe
Shall whisper us asleep, though thou art deafe;
Those waggish Nymph too which none ever yet
Durst make love to, wee'l teach the Loving fit,
Wee'l suck the Corall of their lips, and feed
Upon their spicie breath, a meale at need,
Rove in their Amber-tresses, and unfold
That glist'ring grove, the Curled wood of gold,
Then peep for babies, a new Puppet-play,
And riddle what their pratling Eyes would say.
But here thou must remember to dispurse,
For without money all this is a Curse,
Thou must for more bags call, and so restore
This Iron-age to gold, as once before;
This thou must doe, and yet this is not all,
For thus the Poet would be still in thrall,
Thou must then (if live thus) my neast of honey,
Cancell old bonds, and beg to lend more money.
| Olor Iscanus | |