University of Virginia Library

To my most honoured Cousin Mr. Charles Cotton the younger, upon his excellent Poems.

Bear back you Croud of Wits, that have so long
Been the prime Glory of the English tongue;
And room for our Arch-Poet make, and follow
His steps, as you would do your great Apollo:
Nor is he his Inferiour, for see
His Picture, and you'l say that this is he;
So young, and handsome both, so tress'd alike,
Thar curious Lilly, or most skil'd Vandike
Would prefer neither: Onely here's the odds,
This gives us better verse, then that the Gods.
Beware you Poets that (at distance) you
The reverence afford him that is due
Unto his mighty merit, and not dare
Your puny thrids with his lines to compare;
Lest (for so impious a pride) a worse
Then was Arachne's Fate, or Midas curse,
Posterity inflicts upon your fames,
For ventring to approch too near his Flames;
Whose all-commanding Muse disdains to be
Equal'd by any, in all Poesy.
As the presumptuous Son of Clymene
The Suns command importun'd for a day
Of his unwilling Father, and for so
Rash an attempt fell headlong into Po;
So you shall fall, or worse; not leave so much
As empty names, to show there once were such.
The Greek and Latine Language he commands,
So all that then was writ in both those Lands:
The French and the Italian he hath gain'd,
And all the wit that in them is contain'd:
So, if he pleases to translate a piece
From France, or Italy, Old Rome, or Greece,
The understanding Reader soon will find
It is the best of any of that kind;
But when he lets own rare Fancy loose
There is no flight so Noble as his Muse:
Treats he of War? Bellona doth advance,
And leads his March with her refulgent Lance:
Sings he of Love? Cupid about him lurks,
And Venus in her Chariot draws his works:
What e're his subject be, he'l make it fit
To live hereafter Emperour of wit.
He is the Muses Darling; All the Nine
Phœbus disclaim, and term him more Divine.
The wondrous Tasso that so long hath born
The sacred Laurel, shall remain forlorn:
Alonso de Ercilla that in strong
And mighty Lines hath Araucana song:
And Salust that the ancient Hebrew-story
Hath Poetiz'd, submit unto your Glory:
So the chief Swans of Tagus, Arne and Seine,
Must yield to Thames, and vail unto your streine.
Hail generous Magazin of Wit; you bright
Planet of Learning, dissipate the Night
Of Dulness, wherein us this Age involves,
And (from our Ignorance) redeem our soules.
A word at parting Sir, I could not choose
Thus to congratulate your happy Muse:
And (though I vilifie your worth) my zeal
(And so in mercy think) intended well.
The world wil find your Lines are great & stronge;
The Nihil Ultra of the English Tongue.