Small poems of Divers sorts Written by Sir Aston Cokain |
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Of Mr. John Fletcher his Plays, and especially the Mad Lover.
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Small poems of Divers sorts | ||
Of Mr. John Fletcher his Plays, and especially the Mad Lover.
Whil'st his well organ'd Body doth retreatTo it's first matter, and the formal heat
Triumphant fits in judgement to approve
Pieces above our Candor and our love;
Such as dare boldly venture to appear
Unto the curious eye, and Critick ear:
Lo! the Mad Lover in these various times
Is prest to life t'accuse us of our Crimes.
Whil'st Fletcher liv'd, who equal to him writ
Such lasting monuments of natural wit?
Others might draw their lines with sweat, like those
That with much pains a Garrison enclose,
Whil'st his sweet fluent vein did gently run
As uncontrol'd, and smoothly as the Sun.
After his Death our Theatres did make
Him in his own unequal'd Language speak:
And now (when all the Muses out of their
Approved modesty silent appear)
This Play of Fletchers braves the envious Light,
As wonder of our ears once, now our sight.
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Of Poets and of Theatres survi'st!
A Groom or Ostler of some wit, may bring
His Pegasus to the Castalian Spring;
Boast he a Race ore the Pharsalian plain,
Or happy Tempe valley dares maintain;
Brag at one leap upon the double Cliffe
(Were it as high as monstrous Temariffe)
Of far renown'd Parnassus he will get,
And there t'amaze the world confirm his seat:
When our admired Fletcher vaunts not ought,
And slighted every thing he writ as nought;
Whil'st all our English wondring world (in's cause)
Made this great City eccho with applause:
Read him therefore all that can read, and those
That cannot, learn; If y'are not Learnings Foes,
And willfully resolved to refuse
The gentle Raptures of this happy Muse.
From thy great Constellation (noble Soul)
Look on this Kingdom, suffer not the whole
Spirit of Poesie retire to Heaven,
But make us entertain what thou hast given.
Earthquakes and thunder Diapasons make,
The Seas vast rore, and Irresistless shake
Of horrid winds a Sympathie compose;
So that in these there's musick in the close:
And (though they seem great discords in our ears)
The cause is not in them, but in our fears.
Granting them musick, how much sweeter's that
Mnemosyne's daughters voices do create?
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To make an harmony (the Instrument
Their own agreeing selves) shall we refuse
The musick that the Deities do use?
Troy's ravish't Gamymed doth sing to Jove;
And Phœbus self playes on his Lyre above.
The Cretan Gods, or glorious men who will
Imitate right, must wonder at thy skill,
Best Poet of thy times! or he will prove
As mad, as thy brave Memnon was with love.
Small poems of Divers sorts | ||