Men-Miracles With other Poemes. By M. LL. St [i.e.Martin Lluelyn] |
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To my Lord B. of Ch. when I presented him a Play.
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 | Men-Miracles |  |
To my Lord B. of Ch. when I presented him a Play.
My Lord,
Who single Leafes before, now heaps hath reard,And from one Beast hath ventur'd at a Herd:
Hoping that Altar which indulg'd a Roome
To the foule Oxe, will toth' foule Hecatombe.
And that his Gyant need not acceptance feare,
Cause 'tis ill shapt, for so his Pigmies were.
For though the staine be greater now, and proud,
And the small vapour swell'd into a Cloud;
Yet still as was the droppe so is the shower,
And all th' ill sent oth' Garland was ith' Flower.
Since then small Parcels shew the greater, and
We guesse th' whole Monster by its face or hand.
Since by lesse papers, Sir, your judgement may
Collect what Prodigie will be the Play:
Let like his doubts your candour be allow'd,
And that cleare Beame melt or expell his cloud.
There are who poize our Lumpe with their least dramme,
And shut up comedy in Epigram.
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And can thrust all our Garden in their Rose.
Sir, I could name you many wits so bigge,
They could present you Groves for this dry Twigge.
There you might walke in shades, and every Bough,
Would crowne the pious Dew which made it grow.
When here the Plant hath hardly bulke for fire,
And set here foure yeares since is scarce a Brier.
Yet let it still grow on, you let thornes stand,
Which growth enables but to offend your hand.
Nature lets Serpents live, although they bring
Nought but more poison, and enlarge their sting.
Your skilfull hand may file the Rude stone pure,
And from that poison may create a cure.
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