The Passionate Poet With a Description of the Thracian Ismarus. By T. P. [i.e. Thomas Powell] |
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The Lotus.
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 | The Passionate Poet |  |
The Lotus.
I passe Celaster, for it is selfe-willd,That neuer thriues but in the fairest field:
The more I write vnto the Mulberrie,
The lesse opinion's mine, if any be.
Ile blame no Ashe for Hypermnestraes fate,
I know the foolish girle was desperate.
Let Cedar be ambitious in her height;
Yet be not thou in passion infinite,
And reprehend each, that is offered, vice,
Lest others thinke thy verses morallize:
Or rather for I feare a Symphonie
Of Ismarites wanting varietie,
And change of argument delights vs best,
Where Scenes affin'd induce but tediousnes.
And what in trees praise-worthie is deriu'd,
From beautie of the outward part's contriu'd;
Or some inherent Vertue, so againe
In the vnworthie Plants alwayes draine
Inuectiue, either from th' ingratefull sente,
From shape, or from the quallities intent,
Or other such like vices: now the while
Good do the bad, and both themselues beguile.
Some one thats generall good hauing his due,
Preuents the praise belongs to them ensue:
So is't in bad, and so it shall suffice,
Onely to speake of one in contraries.
Vertue illustrates vice, describes defines it,
What's not of her, she vnto vice assignes it,
Hence is't, this spatious subiect I sustaind,
Is now at length abridg'd and much restraind
And it compell, fearing to be distrest
Of sentence, and of words equiuocate.
Vnles I streine the sense, or iterate;
When words and sentence and the selfe same sense,
Are oft required in the subsequents.
Of many trees I haue reserued one,
Some call it Lotus, others Citragon;
Hir fruit is enuious to the memorie,
Conducing all things vnto fantasie.
Belieue it, sometimes hath my selfe conuerst
With such as wot not what they were at first,
Lotophagi, who rauished by tast,
Forget them selues, friends, countrie, and what's past.
This fruit receiu'd shall make me quite forget,
I was in passion, or an Ismarit.
And now me thinkes she practiseth hir force
Vpon these senses: now she doth discurse,
Now seperates what sorrow did attone,
Making it but some Hemoridion.
My day is done, now is my passion ended,
And but hir reliques on myne eyes suspended.
| The Passionate Poet | |