To his deare Friend and Schoole-fellow Abraham
Cowley, on his flourishing and
hopefull Blossomes.
Nature we say decayes, because our Age
Is worse then were the Times of old: The Stage
And Histories the former times declare:
In these our latter Dayes what defects are
Experience teacheth, What then? shall wee blame
Nature for this? Not so; let us declame
Rather against our Selves: 'tis we Decay,
Not She: Shee is the same every way
She was at first. Cowley, thou prov'st this truth.
Could ever former Age brag of a Youth
So forward at these yeeres? Could Naso write
Thus young such wittie Poems? Tulli's mite
Of Eloquence, at this age was not seene.
Nor yet was Cato's Judgement, at Thirteene
So great as thine. Suppose it were so; yet
He Cic'ro's Eloquence, Tully the Wit
Of Ovid wanted: Ovid too came farre
In Judgement behind Cato. Therefore are
None of all equall unto Thee, so pretty,
So Eloquent, Judicious, and Witty.
Let the world's spring time but produce and show
Such Blossomes as thy Writings are, and know,
Then (not till then) shall my opinion be,
That it is Nature faileth, and not wee.
Ben. Masters.
To his Friend and Schoole-fellow Abraham
Cowley, on his Poeticall
Blossomes.
Many
, when Youths of tender Age they see
Expressing Cato, in their Gravity,
Judgement, and Wit, will oftentimes report,
They thinke their thread of Life exceeding short.
But my opinion is not so of Thee,
For thou shalt live, to all Posterity.
These gifts will never let thee dye, for Death
Can not bereave thee of thy fame, though breath.
Let snarling Criticks spend their braines to find
A fault, though there be none; This is my mind;
Let him that carpeth with his vipers Tongue,
Thinke with himselfe what he could doe as young.
But if the Springing Blossomes, thus rare bee,
What ripen'd Fruit shall we bereafter see?
Rob. Meade,
Condiscipulus.
