Amanda A Sacrifice To an Unknown Goddesse, or, A Free-Will Offering Of a loving Heart to a Sweet-Heart. By N. H. [i.e. Nicholas Hookes] |
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To the most ingenious Authour upon his excellent Poems.
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To the most ingenious Authour upon his excellent Poems.
The Presse growes honest, and in spite of fate,Now teems a Wit, that is legitimate:
No thundring Muse, although Joves daughter still,
Drawing smooth lines 'twixt th' hornes of Parnasse hill
And yet so strong, that with these nervs I know
Cupid will henceforth string's triumphant bowe.
Doubt not (sweet friend) the Infant-Archer will
Brag that his shafts are feather'd from thy quill.
Within thy book an harmlesse Venus moves,
Yet gen'rous, drawn as anciently by Doves;
Nor dost thou make her sonne obscenely speak,
A bowe though Cupids too much bent may break
Thou art not like those wits, whose numbers jump,
Not with Apollo's Lyre, but Flora's trump.
Thou drink'st to th' bottome of the Muses flood
Fam'd Helicon, and yet canst shun the mud.
Thy fancie's steadie, not like those that rove
Thorow Arabia, then to th' Indies move,
To fetch in jests, but when the totall's come,
Alas, Caligula brings cockles home.
Thy book's thine own, so rare a Muse 'twas fit
Should not be periwigg'd with dead mens wit.
Yet lives their genius in thee: true it is,
Arts have a kinde of metempsychosis.
R. MOYLE, Trin. Col. Soc.
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