The poems of George Daniel ... From the original mss. in the British Museum: Hitherto unprinted. Edited, with introduction, notes, and illustrations, portrait, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart: In four volumes |
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 | The poems of George Daniel |  |
59
To: D: i
.1.6.3.7.
Rare Mirror of the Age, who dost present
All formes to Life, and all Time represent
In its owne Colours; dost aright discerne
Twixt vertue and ostent; whence Men may learne
To vndeceive themselves, in their Surmise
Of former Times, more vertuous or more wise.
All formes to Life, and all Time represent
In its owne Colours; dost aright discerne
Twixt vertue and ostent; whence Men may learne
To vndeceive themselves, in their Surmise
Of former Times, more vertuous or more wise.
Wee'r mad; Mad All; Our grandsires mad as wee;
Their ffathers mad; Mad from all Ancestrie.
ffrom high'st to lowest, from the worst to the best;
ffrom Kings to Pesants, from the Sordid Nest
Of Infamie, to where the Eagle builds.
From Groves to Cities; & from thence to feilds.
Who's free? Not Broome-men, nor the baser sort,
Who dress the Citie, and defile the Court.
Not Hee, whose Acres gave his Father Witt.
They carrie ffate; Hee shall run Mad with it.
Not he, whose birth's his Boast; nor Hee, whose blood
Was drawne from Dunghills, or the fearfull wood:
Who calls a Halter Heraldrie, and Swears
His father found Armes where he lost his Ears.
Lend me thy Spirrit, that I may pronounce
Power, Povertie, Pride, Basenes mad at once.
Their ffathers mad; Mad from all Ancestrie.
ffrom high'st to lowest, from the worst to the best;
ffrom Kings to Pesants, from the Sordid Nest
Of Infamie, to where the Eagle builds.
From Groves to Cities; & from thence to feilds.
Who's free? Not Broome-men, nor the baser sort,
Who dress the Citie, and defile the Court.
Not Hee, whose Acres gave his Father Witt.
They carrie ffate; Hee shall run Mad with it.
Not he, whose birth's his Boast; nor Hee, whose blood
Was drawne from Dunghills, or the fearfull wood:
Who calls a Halter Heraldrie, and Swears
His father found Armes where he lost his Ears.
60
Power, Povertie, Pride, Basenes mad at once.
Bring in the Antique fopperie. Loe here
A Civicke Garland, which was bought too Deare.
Bring in the Paphian Shrub, by soft hands knitt
Into a Chaplet; or sad Willow gett.
Th' Athenian olives bring; bring Atee's wreath;
Roses or Cypress, Mariage or Death.
Bring Grasse or Ivie, or the Laurel hither,
Bound in a faggot; mad, mad Altogether.
Burne 'em for Shame, and let vs rather Chuse
Long nose-bell'd Horses, such as Children vse;
Cimbals for Dinne; and Shittle-Cocks for play;
The Peacock's Tayle, to make our ffrontlets gay;
All Bedlam-witted, walke in Bedlem wise,
With long-eard Caps, and Bells to make a noise.
Wee're mad at home, as if wee should repaire
To China, for Digression of Ayre;
Mad beyond Cure. 'Tis well. Let's All together,
Poets and Poleticks, no matter whither,
T' our long-lost Ithaca, hoise sailes, away,
ffor Hellebore, to the Anticyra.
Ha! ha! Democritus; let's laugh to see
Bedlam the gen'rall Vniversitie.
Wee have gain'd a freedome, in what others lost;
And Poets are but Equall mad at most.
What is it that the world will now advance?
All Learning, vanitie; and vertue, Chance.
A Civicke Garland, which was bought too Deare.
Bring in the Paphian Shrub, by soft hands knitt
Into a Chaplet; or sad Willow gett.
Th' Athenian olives bring; bring Atee's wreath;
Roses or Cypress, Mariage or Death.
Bring Grasse or Ivie, or the Laurel hither,
Bound in a faggot; mad, mad Altogether.
Burne 'em for Shame, and let vs rather Chuse
Long nose-bell'd Horses, such as Children vse;
Cimbals for Dinne; and Shittle-Cocks for play;
The Peacock's Tayle, to make our ffrontlets gay;
All Bedlam-witted, walke in Bedlem wise,
With long-eard Caps, and Bells to make a noise.
Wee're mad at home, as if wee should repaire
To China, for Digression of Ayre;
Mad beyond Cure. 'Tis well. Let's All together,
Poets and Poleticks, no matter whither,
T' our long-lost Ithaca, hoise sailes, away,
ffor Hellebore, to the Anticyra.
Ha! ha! Democritus; let's laugh to see
Bedlam the gen'rall Vniversitie.
Wee have gain'd a freedome, in what others lost;
And Poets are but Equall mad at most.
What is it that the world will now advance?
All Learning, vanitie; and vertue, Chance.
One's mad to lavish out; Hee's mad to Spare;
That with a Numerous Issue; this noe Heire.
Some, Shaddowes please; another banns his ffate.
Hee's rapt; another rages Desperate.
This loves an outward forme; that fashion loath's.
Be'it but in clean-washt hands or well-made Cloathes.
Hee'le Dance; another Doats. This Sings, that's Sad.
Lines tending to a Centre all; They'r Mad.
There are Degrees of Madnes in our Schoole;
ffrom wisedome's Chaire, to the cold Porch of ffoole.
Deep Plotts are Madnes; Mirth Distraction;
One's talking Mad, another more in Action.
This great Intruder will not let alone
Religion. Oh, it makes Religion
A Thousand ffaces vnder one selfe Hood:
And Each is best, where but one can be good.
Some are precise; Some their owne thoughts pursue;
One keeps the old; that, runs to everie new.
This makes Religion for me & nothing else;
That loves the Steeple, but he hates the Bells;
Makes Schisme Zeale; takes Doctrines from a Dreame;
And tears the Coat, because it had no seame.
Organs fright some; another hee's not able
To heare the Altar called more then Table.
Soe painted Windows were defac'd, and All
Salisburie Church was thought Apochriphall.
61
Some, Shaddowes please; another banns his ffate.
Hee's rapt; another rages Desperate.
This loves an outward forme; that fashion loath's.
Be'it but in clean-washt hands or well-made Cloathes.
Hee'le Dance; another Doats. This Sings, that's Sad.
Lines tending to a Centre all; They'r Mad.
There are Degrees of Madnes in our Schoole;
ffrom wisedome's Chaire, to the cold Porch of ffoole.
Deep Plotts are Madnes; Mirth Distraction;
One's talking Mad, another more in Action.
This great Intruder will not let alone
Religion. Oh, it makes Religion
A Thousand ffaces vnder one selfe Hood:
And Each is best, where but one can be good.
Some are precise; Some their owne thoughts pursue;
One keeps the old; that, runs to everie new.
This makes Religion for me & nothing else;
That loves the Steeple, but he hates the Bells;
Makes Schisme Zeale; takes Doctrines from a Dreame;
And tears the Coat, because it had no seame.
Organs fright some; another hee's not able
To heare the Altar called more then Table.
Soe painted Windows were defac'd, and All
Salisburie Church was thought Apochriphall.
Sr, Had I langvage, I would Court the flame
Of your abundant thought, and give a Name,
Yong in the world, your Rivall. I have beene
Sometimes admitted, and in Raptures seene
(That Empresse of Humanitie, who rules
Vs in our Selves, the Monarchie of Soules:)
Your owne Ægeria. Sr: let vs be free,
(As dying Hermits on Earth-pillowes bee)
ffree from the fate of Rivalls, to repine
Her too much being Yours, too little Mine.
Let foolish Lovers who bring viols in
To Lust's hot Qveene of well-apparell'd Sin;
Who sleepe in Silken Laps, on Roses tread,
And know noe fate beyond a Maidenhead;
Let them be iustly Iealous for the Cause,
And Cruciate themselves by their owne Lawes.
Of your abundant thought, and give a Name,
Yong in the world, your Rivall. I have beene
Sometimes admitted, and in Raptures seene
62
Vs in our Selves, the Monarchie of Soules:)
Your owne Ægeria. Sr: let vs be free,
(As dying Hermits on Earth-pillowes bee)
ffree from the fate of Rivalls, to repine
Her too much being Yours, too little Mine.
Let foolish Lovers who bring viols in
To Lust's hot Qveene of well-apparell'd Sin;
Who sleepe in Silken Laps, on Roses tread,
And know noe fate beyond a Maidenhead;
Let them be iustly Iealous for the Cause,
And Cruciate themselves by their owne Lawes.
Not that I hope to Live by Verse, or seeke
To gaine my Name an Inch by what I speake.
Not that I'me poor, or proud; or hope, or feare,
To Dye, or Live, with or without a Teare;
Write I this Paper only that I might
Let the world know how I received your Light;
That I might Shew how much I doe Admire;
(I dare not Envie Say) such a retire.
But that's a Common fate, and may be tooke
The way to Sordid Ends. I love your Booke,
The harvest of your Time; through which I trace
Vnited Rapture with diffusive Grace.
To gaine my Name an Inch by what I speake.
Not that I'me poor, or proud; or hope, or feare,
To Dye, or Live, with or without a Teare;
Write I this Paper only that I might
Let the world know how I received your Light;
That I might Shew how much I doe Admire;
(I dare not Envie Say) such a retire.
But that's a Common fate, and may be tooke
The way to Sordid Ends. I love your Booke,
The harvest of your Time; through which I trace
Vnited Rapture with diffusive Grace.
But let not, Sr, my lost words take you from
Your better Thoughts. Ile rather stay at home,
A willing hearer, and my owne Thoughts please
Vpon your Labours, to my vse and Ease.
Your better Thoughts. Ile rather stay at home,
A willing hearer, and my owne Thoughts please
Vpon your Labours, to my vse and Ease.
| The poems of George Daniel | |