Theophila Or Loves Sacrifice. A Divine Poem. Written by E. B. Esq; Several Parts thereof set to fit Aires by Mr J. Jenkins |
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For the Renowned COMPOSER.
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 | Theophila |  |
For the Renowned COMPOSER.
A Poets Ashes need nor Brass, nor Stone
To be their Ward-robe; Since his Name alone
Shall stand both Brass and Marble to the Tomb.
Nor doth he want the Cere-cloths balmy Womb
T' enwrap his Dust, until his drowzie Clay
Again enliv'ned by an active Ray,
Shot from the last Day's Fire, shall wake, and rise,
Attir'd with Light. No; When a Poet dies,
His Sheets alone winde up his Earth, They'l be
Instead of Mourner, Tomb, and Obsequie;
And to embalm It, his own Ink he takes:
Gumme Arabick the richest Mummy makes.
To be their Ward-robe; Since his Name alone
Shall stand both Brass and Marble to the Tomb.
Nor doth he want the Cere-cloths balmy Womb
T' enwrap his Dust, until his drowzie Clay
Again enliv'ned by an active Ray,
Shot from the last Day's Fire, shall wake, and rise,
Attir'd with Light. No; When a Poet dies,
His Sheets alone winde up his Earth, They'l be
Instead of Mourner, Tomb, and Obsequie;
And to embalm It, his own Ink he takes:
Gumme Arabick the richest Mummy makes.
xliii
Then, Sir, You need no Obelisk, that may
Seclude your Ashes from Plebeian Clay.
For, from your Mine of Fancie, now we see
Y' have digg'd so many Jems of Poesie,
That out of them you raise a glorious Shrine,
In which your ever-blooming Name will shine;
Free from th' Eclipse of Age, and Clouds of Rust,
Which are the Moths to other common Dust.
Seclude your Ashes from Plebeian Clay.
For, from your Mine of Fancie, now we see
Y' have digg'd so many Jems of Poesie,
That out of them you raise a glorious Shrine,
In which your ever-blooming Name will shine;
Free from th' Eclipse of Age, and Clouds of Rust,
Which are the Moths to other common Dust.
Then, could we now collect th' all worshipt Oar,
With which kinde Nature paves the Indian Shore;
And gather to one masse that Stock of Spice,
Which copies out afresh old Paradise,
And in the Phœnix od'rous Nest is pent,
All would fall short of This rich Monument.
With which kinde Nature paves the Indian Shore;
And gather to one masse that Stock of Spice,
Which copies out afresh old Paradise,
And in the Phœnix od'rous Nest is pent,
All would fall short of This rich Monument.
About the Surface of whose Verge, You stick
So many fragrant Flow'rs of Rhetorick,
That Lovers shall approach in Throngs, and seek
With their rich Leaves t' adorn each Beauties Cheek;
So that, these sacred Trophies will become
In After-times your Altar, not your Tomb.
To which the Poets shall in well-drest Laies,
Offer their Victimes, with a Grove of Bayes.
So many fragrant Flow'rs of Rhetorick,
That Lovers shall approach in Throngs, and seek
With their rich Leaves t' adorn each Beauties Cheek;
So that, these sacred Trophies will become
In After-times your Altar, not your Tomb.
To which the Poets shall in well-drest Laies,
Offer their Victimes, with a Grove of Bayes.
For here among these Leaves, no speckled Snake,
Or Viper doth his Bed of Venom make:
No Lust-burnt Goat, nor looser Satyr weaves
His Cabin out, among these spotlesse Leaves.
Or Viper doth his Bed of Venom make:
No Lust-burnt Goat, nor looser Satyr weaves
His Cabin out, among these spotlesse Leaves.
A Virgin here may safely dart her Eye,
And yet not blush for Fear, lest any by
Should see Her read. These Pages do dispence
A Julep, which so charms the Itch of Sense,
That we are forc't to think your guiltlesse Quill
Did, with its Ink, the Turtles Blood distill.
And yet not blush for Fear, lest any by
Should see Her read. These Pages do dispence
A Julep, which so charms the Itch of Sense,
That we are forc't to think your guiltlesse Quill
Did, with its Ink, the Turtles Blood distill.
T. Philipot.
| Theophila | |