Poems By Thomas Philipott |
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On the sight of some rare Pieces and Monuments of Antiquitie, in an Antiquaries Studie.
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 | Poems |  |
On the sight of some rare Pieces and Monuments of Antiquitie, in an Antiquaries Studie.
Let Æsons Storie wast away, and beNo more transcrib'd unto posteritie:
It must now wither, and dispight of all
His powerfull baths, and moistening juices, shall
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(Being dead) t'entombe it in, no other grave,
But dark Forgetfulnesse; where it shall lie
For ever, buried in Obscuritie.
For, now Antiquity it selfe, with yeares
Grown white and hoarie, with long age, appears
Here fresh and vigorous; things which Ages past
Crumbled away, and did decay so fast,
They were ev'n thought in a Consumption then,
Do here rise up in a full Youth agen:
Times Æsculapius has done this; for He
'Gainst the disease of Time, a remedie
Prescribes, beyond all Druggs: He has the Art
T'embalme the fame of things; yet, not impart,
To keep them so that they shall ne're consume,
Whole clouds of Myrrhe, Spice, Cassis, and Perfume:
And, as the Loadstone Iron can call out,
When 'tis beleaguer'd, and ev'n wall'd about
With other wild confused heaps of dust;
So, when mens names grow fretted with the rust
Age strewes upon them, and they seem to be
Lost in the ruines of mortalitie;
He, from that rude and blended Masse, can bring
Their dead remembrance out, and can new wing
Those thus rais'd up to life, and make them flie
'Bove Times wide reach, up to Eternitie:
He can peece up mens scatter'd dust, his hands
Mannage a powerfull Scepter, that commands
Ev'n Fate it selfe, with which he can make blunt
The Teeth of Time, which, Estrich-like, were wont
To feed on iron, piles of brasse devoure,
And Natures beauty, like a Moath, defloure.
In fine, this study is the publike Ark
In which the memories of men embark;
Which, being here repriev'd from death, do shun
The being drown'd in deep Oblivion.
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