Poems, and phancies written By the Thrice Noble, Illustrious, And Excellent Princess The Lady Marchioness of Newcastle [i.e. Margaret Cavendish]. The Second Impression, much Altered and Corrected |
 |
TO THE LADY MARCHIONESS OF NEWCASTLE, On Her Book of POEMS.
|
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
|
|
 | Poems, and phancies |  |
TO THE LADY MARCHIONESS OF NEWCASTLE, On Her Book of POEMS.
I saw your Poems, and then Wish'd them mine,Reading the Richer Dressings of each Line;
Your New-born, Sublime Fancies, and such store,
May make our Poets blush, and Write no more:
Nay, Spencers Ghost will haunt you in the Night,
And Johnson rise, full fraught with Venom's Spight;
Fletcher, and Beaumont, troubl'd in their Graves,
Look out some Deeper, and forgotten Caves;
And Gentle Shakespear weeping, since he must
At best, be Buried, now, in Chaucers Dust:
Thus dark Oblivion covers their each Name,
Since you have Robb'd them of their Glorious Fame.
Such Metaphors, such Allegories fit,
Your Judgment weighing out your fresher Wit,
Your Fancies Pencil's far beyond Vandike;
Drawing all things to all things, at your Pleasure,
Which shews, your Store-house is the Muses Treasure;
Your Head the Limbeck, where the Muses sit,
Distilling there the Quintessence of Wit;
Spirits of Fancy, Essences so Sweet,
In your just Numbers walk on Velvet Feet.
I thought to Praise you, but alas, my Way
To yours, is Night unto a Glorious Day.
W. Newcastle.
| Poems, and phancies | |