Lae Horae di recreatione or The pleasante Historye of Albino and Bellama to which is annexed il insonio in: sonodado or the vindication of Poesye by N. W. [i.e. Nathaniel Whiting] |
Lae Horae di recreatione or The pleasante Historye of Albino and Bellama | ||
i
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE, RIGHT worthy, and truely ennobled Hero, Iohn, Lord Loveliss, Baron of Hurley, N. W. S.P.O.
The Law-enactors, whilst time fear'd the rod,Faign'd in their lawes, the presence of a god,
Whose awful nod, & wisedome grave shold be
As hand and signet unto their decree.
And such commanding aw that sacred name
Struck in the vulgar breasts, it teen'd a flame
Of Love and duty to their pious hefts.
Thus Rhadamanthus in his lawes invests
Him, whom prophaner times stil'd Heavens King.
Minos and others strike the selfe-same string.
The Moral's mine: for in this quirking season
When pride and envie steere the Helme of reason,
It is, has with Presse-taskers been in use
To presse the issue of their prose and Muse
Vnder the Ensignes of some worthy Peere,
Whose very name unsatyr can a jeere,
ii
To sleepe their suns as Reare-mice doe the day.
Then doe they bravely march with honour arm'd,
Which, as the gods, the people, charmeth, charm'd,
On this knowne priveledge feete I these lines,
In which, though dimmer then your native, shines
Your worth, en-fired by my kneed quill,
Which claimes the scale not of desertes, but wil,
In your acceptance and the worlds surmise
Then Cynicks barke and Critekes beame your eyes.
My quill's no pensill to emblason forth
Your stainlesse honour and your matchlesse worth,
As dust-borne flyes which 'bout the candle play
Glide through its arch, en-circle, fan, survay,
Winke at the presence of dayes beamy blaze,
Pur on the glasse, or on hearb-pillowes laze,
Iust so my downy Muse in Distiques dare
Feete the perfection of a silklesse faire
Pumex each parr so trimly that her foe
Sweares her cheekes roses and her bosome snow,
Nay has strewd flowres of desertlesse prayse
T' adorne the Tombe of good Sr worthy Crayse,
Vnder this (ah mee) stone is laid (alas!)
A man,—a knight—the best that ever was
His prowesse war, his wisedome state did prove,
His kindnesse kindred, and the world his love.
But when shee should with her weake feathers soare
To court a star, or with her feeble oare
Strike such a sea of worth, ride honours ring.
Shee dares not touch, or snaffle, saile or wing,
Onely as he which limb'd those teares and sighs,
Which Iphigenias death, from hearts and eyes
Of kindred drew, but ore her father's brow
(Telling the world hee mournd without an how,)
iii
So with a—must my muse expresse
Your sacred worth, concluding it to bee
Too high for any Bard, if not, for mee,
Beside, the world of late has nicknam'd praise
Calls it an elbow-claw and scraping bayes,
Then pardon (Sir) this dearth, and iudge the why
Is your worth soar'd above Parnasse's eye
Let not your slights or nescio's (thogh most iust)
Condemne my muse to bee en-seild with dust,
Nor let presumption hoyste to your embrace
But rather let your honour bate its place
And stoope unto my measures, since the name
Of Patrone awes oft times the breath of fame
And by this honour shall you ere en-gage
The knee, hand, duty, ayre and thriving age
Of your honours ever humbly devoted, N. W.
iv
To the Reader.
Courteous Reader: For to such I write,With native candor view this checkred white,
Be truly candid to a candidate,
Whom importunings force to ante-date
The travails of his quill, and like a grape
Ere ripened, presse it, yet if I escape
The censure of these times, this Critick age,
My Muse (like Parrats) in a wyer cage
Shall not doe penance; but I'le not promise it,
'Cause 't doth too much oth' lips of greatnesse sit.
And tis a fault for me to sympathize,
I bring no anticke maske in strange disguize,
No sharpe invective, nor no Comick mirth,
Which may to laughter give an easie birth.
Though tis in use with them that seeke to please
These humorous times (it being a disease
halfe Epidemicall, to keepe a phrase
Or phansie at staves end, nought merits prayse,
Vnlesse with quibbels every staffe does end,
Conceited jests, which unto lightnesse tend)
Though every page swels with ingenuous plots,
Yet cry our carpes, the Authors are but sots.
v
With them are now the cheifest men of note,
But I, nor am, nor hope that name to gaine,
Of Panto mimick yet did nature daigne,
The Optick-glasse of Humours to descrye,
Each mans ranke humour onely by the eye,
I would have tun'd my Muse, that every page,
Might swell with humours suting to this age,
This leafe should talke of love, and that of state,
This, of alarums, that of wonders prate,
This of Knights Errante, of Enchantement that,
This to the itching eares of nouels chat,
But—since my starv'd Fortunes mist that, I have drawne
A picture shadowd ore with double lawne,
Lest some quick Lyncist with a pearcing eye,
Should the young foot-steps of a truth espye,
Yet something I confesse was borne of late,
(Which makes me age it with an ancient date,
But let no antick-hunter poste to Stow,
To trace out truth upon his even snow,
Annalls are dumbe of such and such a Lord,
Nor of our amorous paire speake halfe a word,
Monastick writs doe not Bellama lim
Nor Abbey-roules doe teeme a line of him,
This story has no syres (as 'tis the vse)
But weake invention, and a feeble Muse,
These are the parents, that abortive birth
Give to this Embrion of desired mirth,
Which in the authors name, does humbly crave
A charitable censure or a grave,
The purest-boulted floure that is, has bran.
Venus her Næue, Helen her staine, nor can,
I thinke these lines are censure-free, empalde,
By th'muses, and 'gainst envyes Iavelins mal'd,
vi
With the quod non vis of the Heathen men.
And if the crimes doe in lowd Ecchoes speake
Thy spunge, but not with lashing Satyrs break
That sacred bond of friendship, for t' may bee
I may hereafter doe as much for thee,
Nor doe thou think to trample on my Muse,
Nor in thy lofty third-ayre braves accuse
My breast of faintnesse or the ballad-whine,
For know my heart is full as big as thine,
And as pure fire heates my octavo bulke
As the grand-felio, or the Reamish bulke
If but oppos'd with envye but vnlesse
I truly am what these few wordes expresse,
Thy ready Freind, N. W.
vii
TO THE RIGHT vertuous and equally beautiful, Sra Inconstanza Bellarizza.
Fairest,
When by much gazing on those glittering beames,Which (if unmaskt) from dayes bright Henchman streames,
The Rascians eyes doe gaine the curse of yeares,
The Load-stones swarfie hue their tapers cleares.
When Vnicornes have gluts or surfets taine
By browsing Lycoras, they to regaine
Their stomackes, and a cure, crash bitter grasse:
I leave the application, 'tis a glasse
Wherein the dimmest eye may plainly see
What's due to me from you, to you from me.
But—I'le onely tell the world, that for your sake
My willing Muse this taske did underrake
At howres of recreation, when a thought
Of your choyce worth this, and this phansie brought.
Some to the barre will call the truth hereof,
Some wonder why? some passe it by, some scoffe,
Because in this full harvest of your sex,
Amongst such thousands gleane your name t'annex
viii
Some will be apt to think my pen rehearses
Love passions 'twixt your selfe and some choyce he,
(The world I know will not suspect tis me)
And that I age it, lest quick eyes should see;
But in this thought I'me silent, thoughts are free.
Indeed your worth doth just proportion hold
With this high worth which of Bellama's told,
And well my knowledge can enforme my pen
To raise a spite in women, love in men.
And if the Fates befriend me, that my thread
Out-measures yours (your worth asleepe, not dead,
For such worth cannot dye) I then will say,
You equald her, and was—(but truth away)
If these, dull melancholy, griefe, or sleepe,
From any prone thereto, at distance keepe,
Let unto you their tribute thankes be payd,
For my invention by your worth was rayd,
My phansie rais'd, enliv'ned and enspir'd,
That my quick Muse my agill hand has tir'd,
Nay more, me thinkes I might unchidden call
You, subject, object of this Poem all,
And all in this acknowledgement may trim,
You pros'd this Poem, but 'twas vers'd by him,
Who stiles himselfe your servant, N. W.
ix
THE AVTHOVRS APOLOGIE.
Some rigid Stoick will (I doubt not) shooteA quipping censure at this wanton fruit,
And say, I better might have us'd my tallants,
Than t'humour Ladies, and perfumed gallants.
Know such, that pamphlets writ in meeter, measure
As much invention, judgement, wit, as pleasure,
All learning's not lockt up in si's and tum's.
Roses, Pinkes, Violets, as well as gums,
Some native fragour have to equall Civet,
Minerva does not all her treasures rivet
Into the scrues of Obs and Sols: but we
Are sea-borne birds, and as our pedigree
Came sayling ore from Normandie and Troy,
So we must have our prettie Ermine joy.
One part Italian, and of French the other,
Stout Belgia be her Syre, and Spaine her mother.
So our apparell is so strange and anticke,
That our great grand-syres sure would call us franticke
And should they see us on our knees for blessing,
They'd scue aside, as frighted at our dressing.
We packe so many Nations up, that we
We are Spaine in waste, and France below the knee.
x
Our braines doe travaie with the selfe-same meed.
Wee're Chaldees, Hebrews, Latines, Greeks, and yet
But few pure Englishmen are lapt in Iet.
We scorne our mother language, and had rather
Say Pater noster twice, than once Our Father.
This makes our Pulpits Linsey-wolsey stut,
When buskind stages in stiffe satten strut.
Nay clownes can say, this Parson knowes enough,
But that his language does his knowledge blough:
Is it not time to polish then our Welch,
When Hindes and Peasants such invectives belch?
Then English bravely study, 'tis no shame
For grave Divines to win an English fame.
I've heard a worthy man approv'd for learning,
Say, that in Playes and Rithmes we may be earning
Both wit and knowledge, and that Sidney-prose
Out-musickes Tully, if it scape the nose.
Then purg'd from gall (ingenuous friends) peruse,
And though you chide the Author, spare the Muse.
N. W.
xi
The Authour to his Book.
Goe gall-lesse infant of my teeming Quill,
Not yet bedewd in Syracusa's rill,
And like a forward Plover gadst abroad,
Ere shell-free, or before full age has strowd
On thy smooth backe a coate of feathers,
To arme thee 'gainst the force of weathers,
Doomd to the censure of all Ages,
Ere mal'd against the youngest rages,
Perchance some Nobles will thee view,
Smile at thee, on thee, like thee new,
But when white age has wrinkled thee,
Will slight thy measures, laugh at mee.
At first view called pritty,
And perchance stiled witty
By some Ladies, untill thou
Wearest furrowes on thy brow.
Some plumed Gallants may
Vnclasp thy leaves and say,
Th'art mirthful, but ere long
Give place unto a Song.
Some courteous Scholler
Purg'd from all choller,
May like, but at last,
Say thou spoylst his tast,
First, Lawyers will
Commend thy skil,
Last, throw thy wit
With Trinits writ
Chamber shees
On their knees
wil thee praise,
and thy bayes,
At first,
till thirst
of newe
death you,
then all
men shal
Flee
thee
Bee
me.
Not yet bedewd in Syracusa's rill,
And like a forward Plover gadst abroad,
Ere shell-free, or before full age has strowd
On thy smooth backe a coate of feathers,
To arme thee 'gainst the force of weathers,
Doomd to the censure of all Ages,
Ere mal'd against the youngest rages,
Perchance some Nobles will thee view,
Smile at thee, on thee, like thee new,
But when white age has wrinkled thee,
Will slight thy measures, laugh at mee.
At first view called pritty,
And perchance stiled witty
By some Ladies, untill thou
Wearest furrowes on thy brow.
Some plumed Gallants may
Vnclasp thy leaves and say,
Th'art mirthful, but ere long
Give place unto a Song.
Some courteous Scholler
Purg'd from all choller,
May like, but at last,
Say thou spoylst his tast,
First, Lawyers will
Commend thy skil,
Last, throw thy wit
With Trinits writ
Chamber shees
On their knees
wil thee praise,
and thy bayes,
At first,
till thirst
of newe
death you,
then all
men shal
Flee
thee
Bee
me.
xii
This is thy doome, I by prophetick spirit,
Presage will be the guerdon of my merit:
Yet be no Burre, no trencher-flye, nor hound,
To fawn on them whose tongs thy measures wound.
Nor beg those niggards eyes, who grudge to see
A watch unwinded in perusing thee.
And if state-scratchers doe condemne thy jests,
For ruffling sattens, and bespangled vests,
Tell them they're cosend, and in vain they puffe,
Thou neither aim'st at halfe-ell band or ruffe;
And if thy lines perchance some Ermins gash,
Tis not thy fault, twas no intended lash.
Thy pensill limbs Don Fuco's portraicture,
And onely dost his native worth immure
Within these tilick rindes: nor is thy rage
Against the Cowlists of this yongest age.
Thy rithmes cry Pax to all, nor dost thou scatter
Abuses on their shrines, their Saints, or water;
And if some civill Satyr lash thee backe,
Because he reads my title, sees my black,
Answer ith' Poets phrase, and tell them more,
My tale of yeares had scarce out-sum'd a score
When my young phansie these light measures meant
The Presse: but Fate since canceld that intent,
Nor claim'd the Church as then a greater part
In me than others, bate my title Art—
But now the scean is chang'd? confest it is
Must we abjure all youth, borne, bury this?
Such closet death's desertlesse, in this glasse
Read not what now I am, but then I was:
In this reflection may the gravest see
How true we snite, I, this, and this with mee.
These thornes pickt out, whose venome might have bred
A gangrene in thy Reader, struck thee dead.
Thou mayst perhaps invited be to court,
And have a brace of smiles t'approve thy sport.
Those, whose grave wisdomes, Wise do them entitle,
(Whose learned nods lowd ignorance can stifle)
Some of times numbers on thy lines will scatter,
If not cald from thee by some higher matter,
Laugh out a rubber, like, and say 'tis good
For pleasure, youth and leasure, wholesome food.
Some jigging Silk-canary, newly bloom'd,
When he is crisped, bathed, oyld, perfum'd,
(Which till the second chime, will scarce be done)
Vpon thy feet will make his chrystals run,
Commend the author, vow him service ever,
But from such things his Genius him deliver.
Some sleeked Nymphs, of countrey, citie, court,
Will, next their Dogges and Monkies, like thy sport,
Smile, and admire, and wearied will (perhaps)
Lay thee to sleepe encurtaind in their laps,
Oh happy thou! who would not wish to be
(To gaine such dainty lodging) such, or thee?
Say, to please them, the Poet undertooke
To make thee from a sheet thrive to a booke,
And if he has to beauty giv'n a gem,
He challengeth a deck of thankes from them:
And if some winning creature smile on thee,
She shall his L. and his Bellama bee.
Betwixt eleven and one, some pro and con
Will snatch a phansie from thee, and put on
A glove or ring of thine to court his lasse,
Twixt Tearme and Tearme, when they are turnd to grasse,
Some Titius will lay by his wax and bookes,
And nim a phrase to bait his amorous hookes.
But stay, I shall be chid, me thinkes I heare
A censure spread its wings to reach my eare,
Tell me I am conceited: then no more,
Go take thy chance, I turne thee out oth' dore.
Presage will be the guerdon of my merit:
Yet be no Burre, no trencher-flye, nor hound,
To fawn on them whose tongs thy measures wound.
Nor beg those niggards eyes, who grudge to see
A watch unwinded in perusing thee.
And if state-scratchers doe condemne thy jests,
For ruffling sattens, and bespangled vests,
Tell them they're cosend, and in vain they puffe,
Thou neither aim'st at halfe-ell band or ruffe;
And if thy lines perchance some Ermins gash,
Tis not thy fault, twas no intended lash.
Thy pensill limbs Don Fuco's portraicture,
And onely dost his native worth immure
Within these tilick rindes: nor is thy rage
Against the Cowlists of this yongest age.
Thy rithmes cry Pax to all, nor dost thou scatter
Abuses on their shrines, their Saints, or water;
And if some civill Satyr lash thee backe,
Because he reads my title, sees my black,
Answer ith' Poets phrase, and tell them more,
My tale of yeares had scarce out-sum'd a score
When my young phansie these light measures meant
The Presse: but Fate since canceld that intent,
Nor claim'd the Church as then a greater part
In me than others, bate my title Art—
But now the scean is chang'd? confest it is
Must we abjure all youth, borne, bury this?
Such closet death's desertlesse, in this glasse
Read not what now I am, but then I was:
In this reflection may the gravest see
How true we snite, I, this, and this with mee.
These thornes pickt out, whose venome might have bred
A gangrene in thy Reader, struck thee dead.
xiii
And have a brace of smiles t'approve thy sport.
Those, whose grave wisdomes, Wise do them entitle,
(Whose learned nods lowd ignorance can stifle)
Some of times numbers on thy lines will scatter,
If not cald from thee by some higher matter,
Laugh out a rubber, like, and say 'tis good
For pleasure, youth and leasure, wholesome food.
Some jigging Silk-canary, newly bloom'd,
When he is crisped, bathed, oyld, perfum'd,
(Which till the second chime, will scarce be done)
Vpon thy feet will make his chrystals run,
Commend the author, vow him service ever,
But from such things his Genius him deliver.
Some sleeked Nymphs, of countrey, citie, court,
Will, next their Dogges and Monkies, like thy sport,
Smile, and admire, and wearied will (perhaps)
Lay thee to sleepe encurtaind in their laps,
Oh happy thou! who would not wish to be
(To gaine such dainty lodging) such, or thee?
Say, to please them, the Poet undertooke
To make thee from a sheet thrive to a booke,
And if he has to beauty giv'n a gem,
He challengeth a deck of thankes from them:
And if some winning creature smile on thee,
She shall his L. and his Bellama bee.
Betwixt eleven and one, some pro and con
Will snatch a phansie from thee, and put on
A glove or ring of thine to court his lasse,
Twixt Tearme and Tearme, when they are turnd to grasse,
Some Titius will lay by his wax and bookes,
And nim a phrase to bait his amorous hookes.
But stay, I shall be chid, me thinkes I heare
A censure spread its wings to reach my eare,
xiv
Go take thy chance, I turne thee out oth' dore.
Lae Horae di recreatione or The pleasante Historye of Albino and Bellama | ||