The works of Sr William Davenant ... Consisting of Those which were formerly Printed, and Those which he design'd for the Press: Now published Out of the Authors Originall Copies |
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To Endimion Porter.
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 | The works of Sr William Davenant |  |
To Endimion Porter.
How safe (Endimion) had I liv'd? how blest,
In all the silent privacies of rest?
How might I lengthen sleeps, had I been wise
Unto my self, and never seen thine Eies?
My Verse (unenvy'd then) had learn'd to move
A slow, meek pace; like sober Hymns of love
By some noch'd-Brownist sung, that would indear
His holy itch, to some chaste Midwives Ear:
The pleasure of ambition then had bin,
To me lost in the danger, and the sinn:
The Mirtle Sprig (that never can decay)
I had not known, nor Wreaths of living Bay:
Instead of these, and the wild Ivy Twine,
(Which our wise Fathers justly did assigne,
To him that in immortal Verse exceeds)
My brow had worn, some homely Wreath of Weeds:
And such low pride is safe: for though the Bay,
Lightning, nor Winds can blast, yet Envy may.
If hidden still from thee, I should have lesse
To answer now, for glory, and excesse:
My surfeits had not reach'd the cunning yet,
To seek an expiation from their wit:
For more then Village Ale, and drowsie Beer,
(Cawdles, and Broth to the dull Islander)
I n'ere had wish'd; now, My Man, hot, and dry,
With fierce transcriptions of my Poesie:
Cryes, Sir, I thirst! then strait I bid him chuse
(As Poets Prentices did surely use
Of Greece and Rome) some clear, cheap Brook, there stay,
And drink at Natures charge his thirst away:
Though Fasts (More then are taught i'th' Kalender)
Had made him weak; this gave him strength to swear,
And urge that after Horace the divine
Mæcenas knew, his slaves drunk ever Wine:
So whilst Endimion lives, he vows to pierce
Old Gascoine Cask, or not transcribe a verse.
If never known to thee, missing the skill
How to do good, I should have found my ill
Excus'd; th' excessive charge of Ink, an Oyle,
Expence of quiet sleeps, and the vain toyle,
In which the Priest of Smirna took delight,
(When he for knowledge chang'd his precious sight)
Had scap'd me then, now whilst I strive to please
With tedious Art, I loose the lust of ease.
And when our Poets (enviously mis-led)
Shall find themselves out-written, and out-read;
'Twill urge their sorrow too, that thou didst give
To my weak numbers, strength, and joy to live.
In all the silent privacies of rest?
How might I lengthen sleeps, had I been wise
Unto my self, and never seen thine Eies?
My Verse (unenvy'd then) had learn'd to move
A slow, meek pace; like sober Hymns of love
By some noch'd-Brownist sung, that would indear
His holy itch, to some chaste Midwives Ear:
The pleasure of ambition then had bin,
To me lost in the danger, and the sinn:
The Mirtle Sprig (that never can decay)
I had not known, nor Wreaths of living Bay:
Instead of these, and the wild Ivy Twine,
(Which our wise Fathers justly did assigne,
To him that in immortal Verse exceeds)
My brow had worn, some homely Wreath of Weeds:
And such low pride is safe: for though the Bay,
Lightning, nor Winds can blast, yet Envy may.
If hidden still from thee, I should have lesse
To answer now, for glory, and excesse:
My surfeits had not reach'd the cunning yet,
To seek an expiation from their wit:
For more then Village Ale, and drowsie Beer,
(Cawdles, and Broth to the dull Islander)
I n'ere had wish'd; now, My Man, hot, and dry,
With fierce transcriptions of my Poesie:
Cryes, Sir, I thirst! then strait I bid him chuse
(As Poets Prentices did surely use
Of Greece and Rome) some clear, cheap Brook, there stay,
And drink at Natures charge his thirst away:
Though Fasts (More then are taught i'th' Kalender)
Had made him weak; this gave him strength to swear,
And urge that after Horace the divine
Mæcenas knew, his slaves drunk ever Wine:
So whilst Endimion lives, he vows to pierce
Old Gascoine Cask, or not transcribe a verse.
224
How to do good, I should have found my ill
Excus'd; th' excessive charge of Ink, an Oyle,
Expence of quiet sleeps, and the vain toyle,
In which the Priest of Smirna took delight,
(When he for knowledge chang'd his precious sight)
Had scap'd me then, now whilst I strive to please
With tedious Art, I loose the lust of ease.
And when our Poets (enviously mis-led)
Shall find themselves out-written, and out-read;
'Twill urge their sorrow too, that thou didst give
To my weak numbers, strength, and joy to live.
But O! uneasie thoughts! what will become
Of me, when thou retir'st into a Tombe?
The cruel, and the envious then will say:
Since now his Lord is dead; he that did sway
Our publick smiles, opinion, and our praise,
Till we this childe of Poesie did raise
To Fame, and love; let's drown him in our Inke;
Where like a lost dull Plummet let him sinke
From humane sight; from knowledge he was borne
Unless succession find him in our scorne.
Remembrance, never to repentance showes,
The wealth we gaine, But what we fear to lose;
Thou art my wealth; and more than Light ere spy'd,
Than Eastern Hills bring forth, or Seas can hide:
But this when I rejoyce, my fears divine,
I want the fate, still to preserve thee mine:
And Kings depos'd, wish they had never known
Delight, nor sway; which ere they toyl'd to owne.
Of me, when thou retir'st into a Tombe?
The cruel, and the envious then will say:
Since now his Lord is dead; he that did sway
Our publick smiles, opinion, and our praise,
Till we this childe of Poesie did raise
To Fame, and love; let's drown him in our Inke;
Where like a lost dull Plummet let him sinke
From humane sight; from knowledge he was borne
Unless succession find him in our scorne.
Remembrance, never to repentance showes,
The wealth we gaine, But what we fear to lose;
Thou art my wealth; and more than Light ere spy'd,
Than Eastern Hills bring forth, or Seas can hide:
But this when I rejoyce, my fears divine,
I want the fate, still to preserve thee mine:
And Kings depos'd, wish they had never known
Delight, nor sway; which ere they toyl'd to owne.
| The works of Sr William Davenant | |