Occasional Verses of Edward Lord Herbert, Baron of Cherbery and Castle-Island ::

What though the vulgar and received praise,
With which each common Poet strives to raise
His worthless Patron, seem to give the height
Of a true Excellence; yet as the weight
Forc'd from his Centre, must again recoil,
So every praise, as if it took some foil,
Only because it was not well imploy'd,
Turns to those senseless principles and void,
Which in some broken syllables being couch'd,
Cannot above an Alphabet be vouch'd,
In which dissolved state, they use to rest,
Until some other in new forms invest
Their easie matter, striving so to fix
Glory with words, and make the parts to mix.

But since praise that wants truth, like words that want
Their proper meaning, doth it self recant;
Such tearms, however elevate and high,
Are but like Meteors, which the pregnant Sky
Varies in divers figures, till at last
They either be by some dark Cloud o'rcast,
Or wanting inward sustenance do devolve,
And into their first Elements resolve.

Praises, like Garments, then, if loose and wide,
Are subject to fall off; if gay and py'd,
Make men ridiculous; the just and grave
Are those alone, which men may wear and have.

How fitting were it then, each had that part
Which is their due: And that no fraudulent art
Could so disguise the truth, but they might own
Their rights, and by that property be known,

For since praise is publick inheritance,
If any Inter-Commoner do chance
To give or take more praise then doth belong
Unto his part, he doth so great a wrong,
That all who claim an equal interest,
May him implead untill he do devest
His usurpations, and again restore
Unto the publick what was theirs before.

Praises should then like definitions be
Round, neat, convertible, such as agree
To persons so, that, were their names conceal'd,
Must make them known as well as if reveal'd:
Such as contain the kind and difference,
And all the properties arising thence.
All praises else, as more or less then due,
Will prove, or strongly false, or weakly true.

Having deliver'd now, what praises are,
It rests that I should to the world declare
Thy praises, DUNN, whom I so lov'd alive.
That with my witty Carew I should strive
To celebrate the dead, did I not need
A language by it self, which should exceed
All those which are in use: I or while I take
Those common words, which men may even rake

From Dunghil wits, I find them so defil'd,
Slubber'd and false, as if they had exil'd
Truth and propriety, such as do tell
So little other things, they hardly spell
Their proper meaning, and therefore unfit
To blazon forth thy merits, or thy wit.

Nor will it serve, that thou did'st so refine
Matter with words, that both did seem divine,
When thy breath utter'd them: for thou b'ing gone,
They streight did follow thee: Let therefore none
Hope to find out an Idiom and sence,
Equal to thee, and to thy Eminence,
Unless our Gracious King give words their bound,
Call in false titles, which each where are found,
In Prose and Verse, and as bad Coin and light
Suppress them and their values, till the right
Take place, and do appear, and then in lieu
Of those forg'd Attributes stamp some anew,
Which being currant, and by all allow'd,
In Epitaphs and Tombs might be avow'd
More then their Escocheons. Mean while, because
Nor praise is yet confined to its Laws,
Nor rayling wants his proper dialect,
Let thy detraction thy late life detect;
And though they term all thy heat, frowardness;
Thy solitude, self-pride; fasts, niggardness,
And on this false supposal would inferr,
They teach not others right, themselves who err;
Yet as men to the adverse part do ply
Those crooked things which they would rectifie,
So would perchance, to loose and wanton Man
Such vice avail more then their vertues can.

University of Virginia Library

Elegy for Doctor Dunn.