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To the Author on his Poems.
A Poets then exact in every part
That is borne one from Nature, nurst by Art.
Whose happy mixture both of skill and fate,
Makes the most suddaine thought Elaborate.
Whose easie straines a flowing sense does fit,
Unforc'd expression, and unravisht wit.
Words fill'd with equall subject, such as brings
To chosen Language high, and chosen things.
Harsh reason cleare as day, as smooth as sleepe,
Glide here like Rivers, even still though deepe.
Discord growes Musicke, greife it selfe delight.
Horror when he describes, leaves off t' affright.
Sullen Philosophy does learne to goe
In lightest dressings, and become them too.
That is borne one from Nature, nurst by Art.
Whose happy mixture both of skill and fate,
Makes the most suddaine thought Elaborate.
Whose easie straines a flowing sense does fit,
Unforc'd expression, and unravisht wit.
Words fill'd with equall subject, such as brings
To chosen Language high, and chosen things.
Harsh reason cleare as day, as smooth as sleepe,
Glide here like Rivers, even still though deepe.
Discord growes Musicke, greife it selfe delight.
Horror when he describes, leaves off t' affright.
Sullen Philosophy does learne to goe
In lightest dressings, and become them too.
And if a Muse like this may hope to finde
A wellcom'd entertainement in the minde,
This worke will please, but they whose height and Gage,
Of wit; are the small Poets of the Age.
Those wretched soules, whose Cold and Hunger writes,
That in their Inke-hornes weare their Appetites.
Whose labours still ride Post, and for their Toile,
Receive the Hackney hire, a groate a Mile.
This book's not sent to these, nor yet to such
That despise all that forces not a blush;
That with the Vouge, and Torrent of the time,
Take what in Prose is sin, for wit in Rime.
That only prize things that are vile and fierce,
A Carre-mans Dialogue put into a Verse.
As if our Genius by our faults were sent,
And still our veine did flow from punishment.
Our fetters were our onely wreath and Prayse,
Were greater from our thackles, then our Bayes.
As if twere valour, and requir'd a Name,
For to be Daring in an Epigramme,
And were a deed as Noble, and as High
For to defame, as stay an Enemy.
In Chast, and even Paths those Poems Tread.
A Recluse might them write, a Vestall reade,
There are no Philters here, no Magick dust,
To raise desire, and Pander out for lust.
But if Triumphant vice oth' looser Age
Commands to Lists, and forces forth just Rage.
The Virgin Muse can then a Satyr turne,
Her sprightly breast with nimble flames will burne:
But such as still are pure, that know to bring,
All of the Serpent forth, besides the sting
Reade here still most secure, reade with a minde
Free as his Extacy; as unconfin'd.
Can you but understand you'l finde it fraught
With what can fill your soule, and graspe your Thought.
Whilst what from these diviner fountaines flowes,
Makes your sport study, pleasure serious.
A wellcom'd entertainement in the minde,
This worke will please, but they whose height and Gage,
Of wit; are the small Poets of the Age.
Those wretched soules, whose Cold and Hunger writes,
That in their Inke-hornes weare their Appetites.
Whose labours still ride Post, and for their Toile,
Receive the Hackney hire, a groate a Mile.
This book's not sent to these, nor yet to such
That despise all that forces not a blush;
That with the Vouge, and Torrent of the time,
Take what in Prose is sin, for wit in Rime.
That only prize things that are vile and fierce,
A Carre-mans Dialogue put into a Verse.
As if our Genius by our faults were sent,
And still our veine did flow from punishment.
Were greater from our thackles, then our Bayes.
As if twere valour, and requir'd a Name,
For to be Daring in an Epigramme,
And were a deed as Noble, and as High
For to defame, as stay an Enemy.
In Chast, and even Paths those Poems Tread.
A Recluse might them write, a Vestall reade,
There are no Philters here, no Magick dust,
To raise desire, and Pander out for lust.
But if Triumphant vice oth' looser Age
Commands to Lists, and forces forth just Rage.
The Virgin Muse can then a Satyr turne,
Her sprightly breast with nimble flames will burne:
But such as still are pure, that know to bring,
All of the Serpent forth, besides the sting
Reade here still most secure, reade with a minde
Free as his Extacy; as unconfin'd.
Can you but understand you'l finde it fraught
With what can fill your soule, and graspe your Thought.
Whilst what from these diviner fountaines flowes,
Makes your sport study, pleasure serious.
J. F.
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