Olor Iscanus A Collection of some Select Poems, and Translations, Formerly written by Mr. Henry Vaughan Silurist. Published by a Friend |
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 | Olor Iscanus |  |
Upon Mr. Fletchers Playes, published, 1647.
I knew thee not, nor durst attendance strive
Labell to wit, Verser remonstrative,
And in some Suburb-page (scandal to thine)
Like Lent before a Christmasse scatter mine,
This speaks thee not, since at the utmost rate
Such remnants from thy peece Intreat their date;
Nor can I dub the Coppy, or afford
Titles to swell the reare of Verse with Lord,
Nor politickly big to Inch low fame
Stretch in the glories of a strangers name,
And Clip those Bayes I Court, weak striver I,
But a faint Echo unto Poetrie.
I have not Clothes t'adopt me, nor must sit
For Plush and Velvets sake Esquire of wit,
Yet Modestie these Crosses would improve,
And Rags neer thee, some Reverence may move.
Labell to wit, Verser remonstrative,
And in some Suburb-page (scandal to thine)
Like Lent before a Christmasse scatter mine,
19
Such remnants from thy peece Intreat their date;
Nor can I dub the Coppy, or afford
Titles to swell the reare of Verse with Lord,
Nor politickly big to Inch low fame
Stretch in the glories of a strangers name,
And Clip those Bayes I Court, weak striver I,
But a faint Echo unto Poetrie.
I have not Clothes t'adopt me, nor must sit
For Plush and Velvets sake Esquire of wit,
Yet Modestie these Crosses would improve,
And Rags neer thee, some Reverence may move.
I did believe (great Beaumont being dead,)
Thy Widow'd Muse slept on his flowrie bed;
But I am richly Cosen'd, and can see
Wit transmigrates, his Spirit stayd with thee,
Which doubly advantag'd by thy single pen
In life and death now treads the Stage agen;
And thus are wee freed from that dearth of wit
Which starv'd the Land since into Schismes split,
Wherein th'hast done so much, wee must needs guesse
Wits last Edition is now i'th' Presse,
For thou hast drain'd Invention, and he
That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee.
But thou hast plotts; and will not the Kirk strain
At the Designe of such a Tragick brain?
Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see
Thy most abominable policie?
Will not the Eares assemble, and think't fit
Their Synod fast, and pray, against thy wit?
But they'le not tyre in such an idle Quest,
Thou doest but kill, and Circumvent in Jest,
And when thy anger'd Muse swells to a blow
'Tis but for Field's, or Swansteed's overthrow.
Yet shall these Conquests of thy Bayes outlive
Their Scotish zeale, and Compacts made to grieve
The Peace of Spirits, and when such deeds fayle
Of their foule Ends, a faire name is thy Bayle.
Thy Widow'd Muse slept on his flowrie bed;
But I am richly Cosen'd, and can see
Wit transmigrates, his Spirit stayd with thee,
Which doubly advantag'd by thy single pen
In life and death now treads the Stage agen;
And thus are wee freed from that dearth of wit
Which starv'd the Land since into Schismes split,
Wherein th'hast done so much, wee must needs guesse
Wits last Edition is now i'th' Presse,
For thou hast drain'd Invention, and he
That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee.
But thou hast plotts; and will not the Kirk strain
At the Designe of such a Tragick brain?
Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see
Thy most abominable policie?
Will not the Eares assemble, and think't fit
Their Synod fast, and pray, against thy wit?
But they'le not tyre in such an idle Quest,
Thou doest but kill, and Circumvent in Jest,
And when thy anger'd Muse swells to a blow
'Tis but for Field's, or Swansteed's overthrow.
Yet shall these Conquests of thy Bayes outlive
Their Scotish zeale, and Compacts made to grieve
The Peace of Spirits, and when such deeds fayle
Of their foule Ends, a faire name is thy Bayle.
20
But (happy thou!) ne'r saw'st these stormes, our aire
Teem'd with even in thy time, though seeming faire;
Thy gentle Soule meant for the shade, and ease
Withdrew betimes into the Land of Peace;
So neasted in some Hospitable shore
The Hermit-angler, when the mid-Seas roare
Packs up his lines, and (ere the tempest raves,
Retyres, and leaves his station to the waves.
Thus thou diedst almost with our peace, and wee
This breathing time thy last fair Issue see,
Which I think such (if needless Ink not soyle
So Choice a Muse,) others are but thy foile;
This, or that age may write, but never see
A Wit that dares run Paralell with thee.
True, BEN must live! but bate him, and thou hast
Undone all future wits, and match'd the past.
Teem'd with even in thy time, though seeming faire;
Thy gentle Soule meant for the shade, and ease
Withdrew betimes into the Land of Peace;
So neasted in some Hospitable shore
The Hermit-angler, when the mid-Seas roare
Packs up his lines, and (ere the tempest raves,
Retyres, and leaves his station to the waves.
Thus thou diedst almost with our peace, and wee
This breathing time thy last fair Issue see,
Which I think such (if needless Ink not soyle
So Choice a Muse,) others are but thy foile;
This, or that age may write, but never see
A Wit that dares run Paralell with thee.
True, BEN must live! but bate him, and thou hast
Undone all future wits, and match'd the past.
| Olor Iscanus | |