[Poems on Several Occasions with A Pastoral to which is added A Discourse of Life] [by John Tutchin] |
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A LETTER TO A FRIEND. |
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 | [Poems on Several Occasions with A Pastoral |  |
64
A LETTER TO A FRIEND.
Thanks for your Praises! were they due, I wou'd
Pamper my self with Joy, and think 'em Good.
Loaden with Laurels for mine unknown Art,
You paint me Great, although beneath Desert.
But if Mæcenas had a lasting Fame,
Because the best of Poets us'd his Name;
Then Merit justly may to me belong,
Because 'tis sung by your all-skilful Tongue.
Oft have I blam'd my Stars, that I should be
Plagu'd with this soft deluding Poetry:
This Charming Mistress, that has kept my Heart,
Quite from a Child, by her bewitching Art.
From her glad Fountain I can always find
A pleasing Philtre to make Phillis kind:
For tell me that coy Maid could ever be
Cruel, when urg'd by Charming Poesie?
Verse is the Poet's Beauty, Wealth and Wit;
And what soft Virgin won't be won by it?
But, wearied with Delight, I always try
Against this Spell to find a Remedy.
By good Divinity I think to find
A Soveraign Remedy for Soul and Mind:
But then, with Holy Flame, I strait do burn,
And all to Hymns, and Sacred Anthems turn.
Nay, when the Night does waking Thoughts redress,
And Guardian Angels with our Souls converse,
To busie Mortals is the sleeping Time;
I dream and slumber all the Night in Rhyme.
Then puzling Logick next I take in hand;
But this, Alas! can't Poesie withstand.
Barbara, Celarent, I with Ease express,
And yoke rough Ergo's into well-made Verse:
My Faithless Lover's Syllogism tries;
I by stout Logick find their Fallacies.
Then Scheibler, Suarez, Bellarmine I get,
And sound the depth of Metaphysick wit:
Streight, in a fret, I damn 'em all at once,
And vow they are as dull as Zabarel or Dunce.
Pamper my self with Joy, and think 'em Good.
Loaden with Laurels for mine unknown Art,
You paint me Great, although beneath Desert.
But if Mæcenas had a lasting Fame,
Because the best of Poets us'd his Name;
Then Merit justly may to me belong,
Because 'tis sung by your all-skilful Tongue.
Oft have I blam'd my Stars, that I should be
Plagu'd with this soft deluding Poetry:
This Charming Mistress, that has kept my Heart,
Quite from a Child, by her bewitching Art.
65
A pleasing Philtre to make Phillis kind:
For tell me that coy Maid could ever be
Cruel, when urg'd by Charming Poesie?
Verse is the Poet's Beauty, Wealth and Wit;
And what soft Virgin won't be won by it?
But, wearied with Delight, I always try
Against this Spell to find a Remedy.
By good Divinity I think to find
A Soveraign Remedy for Soul and Mind:
But then, with Holy Flame, I strait do burn,
And all to Hymns, and Sacred Anthems turn.
Nay, when the Night does waking Thoughts redress,
And Guardian Angels with our Souls converse,
To busie Mortals is the sleeping Time;
I dream and slumber all the Night in Rhyme.
Then puzling Logick next I take in hand;
But this, Alas! can't Poesie withstand.
Barbara, Celarent, I with Ease express,
And yoke rough Ergo's into well-made Verse:
My Faithless Lover's Syllogism tries;
I by stout Logick find their Fallacies.
66
And sound the depth of Metaphysick wit:
Streight, in a fret, I damn 'em all at once,
And vow they are as dull as Zabarel or Dunce.
Credit me, Sir, no greater plague can be,
Than to be poison'd with mad Poetrie:
Like Pocky Letchers, who have got a Clap,
And paid the Doctor for the dear mishap;
But newly eased of their nausceous pain,
Return unto their wanton Sin again.
So Poets be they plague'd with naughty Verse,
They never value good nor bad success:
Or be they trebly damn'd, they will prefer
Their next vile scribling to the Theater.
Well might the Audience, with their hisses, damn
The Bawdy Sot that late wrote Limberham:
But yet you see, the Stage he will command,
And hold the Laurel in's polluted Hand.
In slothful ease, a while I took delight,
And thought all Poets mad that us'd to write.
So long I kept from Verse, I thought I'd lost
My Versing Vein, and of my Fortune boast:
But having tryal made, I quickly found
My store renew'd, in numbers strong and sound.
With ease my happy fancies come and go,
As Rivulets do from Parnassus flow.
Then finding that in vain I long had try'd
The Poet from the Tutchin to divide;
I charming Poesie make my delight,
And propagate the humor still to Write.
Than to be poison'd with mad Poetrie:
Like Pocky Letchers, who have got a Clap,
And paid the Doctor for the dear mishap;
But newly eased of their nausceous pain,
Return unto their wanton Sin again.
So Poets be they plague'd with naughty Verse,
They never value good nor bad success:
Or be they trebly damn'd, they will prefer
Their next vile scribling to the Theater.
Well might the Audience, with their hisses, damn
The Bawdy Sot that late wrote Limberham:
But yet you see, the Stage he will command,
And hold the Laurel in's polluted Hand.
In slothful ease, a while I took delight,
And thought all Poets mad that us'd to write.
So long I kept from Verse, I thought I'd lost
My Versing Vein, and of my Fortune boast:
But having tryal made, I quickly found
My store renew'd, in numbers strong and sound.
67
As Rivulets do from Parnassus flow.
Then finding that in vain I long had try'd
The Poet from the Tutchin to divide;
I charming Poesie make my delight,
And propagate the humor still to Write.
Our new Divines do alter not one jot,
From what their Tribe in older times have wrot:
Except, like Parker, to have something new,
They broach new Doctrines, either false or true:
A Publick Conscience, which for nought does pass,
But proves the Writer is a publick Ass;
Who the new Philosophick world have told,
Have for a new but varnish'd o're the old.
But all Poetick Phancy can't draw dry,
Th' unfathom'd Wells of deepest Poesie.
The Bifront Hill is always stout and strong;
The Muses still are handsome, always young.
The clearest streams of Chrystal Helicon
Do o're the Pebles in sweet Rhymings run.
Why then should you, Dear Sir, (that have pretence
To the extreamest bounds of Wit and Sense)
Lay by your Quills and hold your Tune-ful, Tongue,
While all the witty want your pleasing Song?
Once more renew those Lays that gave delight,
That chear the Day, and glad the gloomy Night:
May with your dying breath your Verses end;
Thus prays your constant, and
From what their Tribe in older times have wrot:
Except, like Parker, to have something new,
They broach new Doctrines, either false or true:
A Publick Conscience, which for nought does pass,
But proves the Writer is a publick Ass;
Who the new Philosophick world have told,
Have for a new but varnish'd o're the old.
But all Poetick Phancy can't draw dry,
Th' unfathom'd Wells of deepest Poesie.
The Bifront Hill is always stout and strong;
The Muses still are handsome, always young.
The clearest streams of Chrystal Helicon
Do o're the Pebles in sweet Rhymings run.
Why then should you, Dear Sir, (that have pretence
To the extreamest bounds of Wit and Sense)
68
While all the witty want your pleasing Song?
Once more renew those Lays that gave delight,
That chear the Day, and glad the gloomy Night:
May with your dying breath your Verses end;
Thus prays your constant, and
Your truest Friend,
J. T.
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