A Nights Search :: :: University of Virginia Library

The true borne Poet, that doth bend his quill
To scan the world, and finding out the ill,
Provides a cure; and still it is his care
To launce the sore, that others may beware:
He's temperate, wise, and modest, he will sit
In company to pollish ore the wit.
He's harmlesse in his life; no person, place
Are hid from his conceits: he shewes that face
That's most obscur'd: his Genius and his pen
May make you think his spirit lives in men.
He's like a little world; for all things there
Obtaine a being in their proper spheare.
All men do meet in him; his searching Art
Sucks in the sweet, and creame of every part,

Gull, knave, or foole, before he'll let him passe,
He'll learne the true character of an asse.
He sets out sin (most lively) black as hell,
To fright men from the bait; he can as well
Display't in parts, or grosse, or both, or either,
(Though sin and he were never bred together)
As well as any curious painter can
The fashion of a landskip or a man.
The guilty man may read his sin, his shame,
And call it his, although there's not his name:
But vertue in her beauty he hath knowne,
He makes all sure, and takes her for his owne:
Then spreads her beauty, that the world may see
Shee's lovely in herselfe; and all may be
Corivals in this match; for she will do
Favours to men, and yet be modest too.

He is a maker, not alone of verse,
But of the matter too; he doth rehearse
Much substance in a word: he can compose
His lofty fancies, or in verse, or prose:
But if in verse, how smoothly doth it glide
Into the heart? the memory beside
Retaines it best: his raptures do translate
The mindes of some into a happy state.
His numbers with his measures do agree;
The accents meet with such sweet harmony:
The emphasis is raised with such grace,
That all concurs to keep both time and place.
Good language in his lines he doth expresse,
His couplings joyne with sense; he is no lesse
Than heire to Parnassus: h'had such a draught
At Helicon, that he is rightly taught
To speake the native tone of all the nine;
But courts Vrania, 'cause she is divine.

What ere his measures are, or short, or long,
Lyricks, or Saphicks; if he frames his song
Iambique like, or if Pentameters,
Or double meeters, or Hexameters;
Or if he pitch upon Heroick straines:
'Twill speak his praise, because his season'd braines
Cast out no drosse; he's modest in his line,
What ere his subject be, his worth will shine.

True profit and delight do meet together
In his conceits: although the foole findes neither.
His lines are stor'd with witty usefull pleasure;
Though idiots sleight, wise men will prize his treasure,
His company is sweet to those that know
How to make use on't: but he'll seldome throw
His breath away upon a scornfull asse,
A brute he came, and so he'll let him passe.

He takes nor fables, nor conceited dreams,
Nor idle fictions to make up his theames;
Yet he will use them, onely to allude
To good, or ill, to shame the multitude.
If melancholy, then he's wise, and grave,
Griefe, sorrow, death, are subjects he will have
To work upon; he gives his words by weight;
With vaine delights he's quite out of conceit.

If he be pleasant, all his writings tend
To take men with delight: he will commend
A little good, to make 'em love the rest:
He's sad 'mongst bad men, merry with the best.
He'll dash an evill out of favour, then
He'll let it blood, but comfort up the men.
He slights the world, nor will he ever be
A favorite to prodigalitie.
He's free to all, regarding not his store,
And that's the reason he is often poore.

He hates lascivious rimes, he'll not applaud
A faire fac'd whore, nor yet the common bawd,
But whip'em still; for he will ever prie
In secret places where most dangers lie.
He's noble-minded (not a sordid elfe)
He strives to know, and to enjoy himselfe:

Nor will he flatter great ones for a fee,
Whose worth lies in their wealth, for such as he
Are able to discerne: nor will he fawne
Vpon his patrons (laying truth to pawne
In every line) unlesse in him he finde
An honest heart grac'd with a noble minde:
Not like a temporizer, who will hold
Pace with his vices, onely for his gold,
Who scribles much, and shamefull praise doth gaine;
T'had better bin undone; for time will staine
His name for ever: most men do detest
All verses for his sake; but yet the rest
Are ne're the worse; for such this time I borrow:
I have digress'd, Ile speak of him to morrow.

But this ingenious Poet doth rehearse
Things as they are, or should be, and his verse
Not stuft with clouded words, or conjuring straines,
Nor thunder-claps, which might distract the braines
Of honest readers: but in tearmes most fit
T'expresse his matter, and to teach them wit.
He doth refine conceits, and raise them higher,
His musique's next unto the angels quire.
Nor doth he spin it thred-bare; he'll begin
New fancies as he goes; the spring within
Runs alwayes fresh: he doth not trade abroad
With borrowed wit, nor tread the beaten road.

His Genius works when other men do sleepe,
His aimes are heavenly, and his judgements deepe.

He's humble still, you cannot make him know
His owne desert; he's not a man for show.
He doth not search for praise, (he loaths all such)
He thinks he's simple, though he knows so much.

But yet to shew the vilenesse of that brood
That doe prefer their humours, hate all good,
Hee'll baffle such men, and he scorns the nest
Of venom-coupled sots: silence is best
To answer such back-biters: he will slight
Detracting vassals that will vomit spight
At what they know not, and will look asquint
On things of worth; what ere has most worth in't
They slubber most with gall; in all that's evill
They'll goe as far, and be as like the Devill,
As all their wit can make them: oh! but then
They'll fall with shame before the Poets pen.
Though they like Xerxes whip the sea, and send
A challenge to the hils; yet in the end
The sea's too strong, the mountaines are too high
For fooles to clamber: so like fooles they die.

This honest Poet finds among the wise
His due respect: for they have learn'd to prize
Persons, and things of worth: and still his bent
Is how to shame the vile, and give content
To all the best. Come, take him as you find him;
Hee'll think of you, though you doe never mind him,
Turne all his verse to prose, it beares the sense
And lustre of a poem: and from thence
True worth doth spring. The Poets first did teach
Humanitie to men, made up the breach,
That rudenesse made; all usefull Arts were cloath'd
VVith Poets wit: why should it then be loath'd?

The learned'st in the languages, rehearse
Much of the sacred text was writ in verse;

As some of Moses law, the Psalmes, the Song
Of Solomon, the holy peoples wrong,
Vnder their foes, by Ieremy related;
The booke of Iob, and all the songs were stated
In measur'd Meeters; who would verse disdaine,
When Poets have such patterns for their straine!

He that is Dramatick, and doth purge the stage
From scurrill drosse, and shewes this simple age
Their moulded trophies; and doth always strive
To keep both persons names, and things alive,
His end is good; but idiots learne by this
How to contrive their ways: to do amisse
Some there conclude (of late I heard one say)
I must go meet a whore at such a play.
What pity 'tis such time, with wit, and cost
Should be bestow'd, and prove but labour lost?
This was invented chiefly to be us'd
By Kings and Nobles, not to be abus'd
By hackney truls: but now I must returne
To lay my honest Poet in his urne:
For having spent his time well, now h'as past
His life to death: the hungry grave at last
Is clos'd upon him; there he must abide
Vntill his just and happy cause be try'd.

His Epitaph.

You sollid stones, incite the gentle dust
To guard this man of worth, that's buried here;
He is a jewell, left unto your trust,
'Till he in glory, gloriously appeare.
Though saucie death hath laid him in this grave,
His name's alive, and living praise shall have,