Poems and Songs by Thomas Flatman. The Fourth Edition with many Additions and Amendments |
 |
 |
TO Mr. SAM. AUSTIN Of Wadham Coll. OXON,
|
|
 | Poems and Songs |  |
146
TO Mr. SAM. AUSTIN Of Wadham Coll. OXON,
On his most unintelligible Poems.
SIR,
In that small inch of time I stole, to look
On th' obscure depths of your mysterious Book,
(Heav'n bless my eye-sight!) what strains did I see!
What Steropegeretick Poetry!
What Hieroglyphick words, what all,
In Letters more than Cabalistical!
We with our fingers may your Verses scan,
But all our Noddles understand them can
No more, than read that dungfork, pothook hand
That in Queen's Colledge Library does stand.
The cutting Hanger of your wit I can't see,
For that same scabbard that conceals your Fancy:
Thus a black Velvet Casket hides a Jewel;
And a dark woodhouse, wholesom winter Fuel;
Thus John Tradeskin starves our greedy eyes,
By boxing up his new-found Rarities;
We dread Actæons Fate, dare not look on,
When you do scowre your skin in Helicon;
We cannot (Lynceus-like) see through the wall
Of your strong-Mortar'd Poems; nor can all
The small shot of our Brains make one hole in
The Bulwark of your Book, that Fort to win.
Open your meanings door, O do not lock it!
Undo the Buttons of your smaller Pocket,
And charitably spend those Angels there,
Let them enrich and actuate our Sphere.
Take off our Bongraces, and shine upon us,
Though your resplendent beams should chance to tan us.
Had you but stoln your Verses, then we might
Hope in good time they would have come to light;
And felt I not a strange Poetick heat
Flaming within, which reading makes me sweat,
Vulcan should take 'em, and I'd not exempt 'em,
Because they're things Quibus lumen ademptum.
On th' obscure depths of your mysterious Book,
(Heav'n bless my eye-sight!) what strains did I see!
What Steropegeretick Poetry!
What Hieroglyphick words, what all,
In Letters more than Cabalistical!
We with our fingers may your Verses scan,
But all our Noddles understand them can
No more, than read that dungfork, pothook hand
That in Queen's Colledge Library does stand.
The cutting Hanger of your wit I can't see,
For that same scabbard that conceals your Fancy:
147
And a dark woodhouse, wholesom winter Fuel;
Thus John Tradeskin starves our greedy eyes,
By boxing up his new-found Rarities;
We dread Actæons Fate, dare not look on,
When you do scowre your skin in Helicon;
We cannot (Lynceus-like) see through the wall
Of your strong-Mortar'd Poems; nor can all
The small shot of our Brains make one hole in
The Bulwark of your Book, that Fort to win.
Open your meanings door, O do not lock it!
Undo the Buttons of your smaller Pocket,
And charitably spend those Angels there,
Let them enrich and actuate our Sphere.
Take off our Bongraces, and shine upon us,
Though your resplendent beams should chance to tan us.
Had you but stoln your Verses, then we might
Hope in good time they would have come to light;
And felt I not a strange Poetick heat
Flaming within, which reading makes me sweat,
148
Because they're things Quibus lumen ademptum.
I thought to have commended something there,
But all exceeds my commendations far:
I can say nothing; but stand still, and stare,
And cry, O wondrous, strange, profound, and rare.
Vast Wits must fathom you better than thus,
You merit more than our praise: as for us
The Beetles of our Rhimes shall drive full fast in,
The wedges of your worth to everlasting,
My Much Apocalyptiqu' friend Sam. Austin.
But all exceeds my commendations far:
I can say nothing; but stand still, and stare,
And cry, O wondrous, strange, profound, and rare.
Vast Wits must fathom you better than thus,
You merit more than our praise: as for us
The Beetles of our Rhimes shall drive full fast in,
The wedges of your worth to everlasting,
My Much Apocalyptiqu' friend Sam. Austin.
| Poems and Songs | |