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To the Author.
Prethee no stay! while you adjourne we looseWhat you demurre upon, and what you choose:
Does not the shade (bright shade of Cartwright know.)
What fruite we misse 'cause be would have it grow?
That sigh'd for Genius once againe we see
Up from the dust, live and put forth in thee;
Well set and active, cast's a comely sight,
Dancing a round, as when in charge, or fight:
Skill'd where to loosen fancy where to binde,
Cleare in the Meeter, clearer in the mind.
Each peice is cleane and briske, no lime, or gall,
No dash in drawing, Sulphur none at all:
Finde me out here one wilde, one borrowed cluster,
Though some are taught to write, as others muster;
Quilt on ill Parisht ends, shred after shred;
All's fine and even here, cause home-spun thred.
The richnesse of the web is, no line wrought
And stretch'd, but humour all, and streame of thought,
Could we but leave thee to thy selfe, and peace,
How would thy numbers fill, these sheets increase?
But brutish pow'rs do rage all that is darke
Joynes 'gainst the ray of reason in the Arke,
Put on thy other fury, try to weare
Head-peice more Rough come forth in Steele and Speare,
That as th' ast taken Pen and Sword unsheath'd
When Mars with Hermes have thy Lawrell wreath'd,
Worke for Apelles then, or who else can
Give us to life the Scholler, Souldier, Man.
J. C.
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