A Select Second Hvsband for Sir Thomas Overbvries Wife Now a Matchlesse Widow [by John Davies] |
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[T'insult vpon the wretched, is a Crime] |
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 | A Select Second Hvsband for Sir Thomas Overbvries Wife |  |
[T'insult vpon the wretched, is a Crime]
T'insult vpon the wretched, is a Crime
That harsh and hatefull makes the smoothest Rime.
If One all Ils, in one should perpetrate,
His Person should be priuiledg'd from hate
In loue, that makes men God-like: for, if God
Be grieu'd, where he hath cause to vse his Rod,
The griefe is for the Person, not the paine,
Which partly he, in loue, doth (so) sustaine.
He made not Death: nor, doth he take delight
To damne, for doing wrong; but, for his right:
Nor, for his right grieues soules to ruinate
But dy'd, in loue, to saue them from his hate.
The Iudge that would be lik'st him, when he giues
His Doome on the Delinquent most that grieues,
Powders his words in Eye-brine, so to tast
Of grace, to them, that (so condemn'd) are grac't.
Then, let no fault, how-euer capitall,
The faultie Person make so loth'd of al,
That he, for it, should so be'reft of heart,
As, in despaire, to wracke his better part.
Though one should ruine all the world, yet he
(If we could helpe it) should not damned be:
For, for but temp'rall faults, eternall Totters
We cannot wish t'our killers, and be Martyrs.
That harsh and hatefull makes the smoothest Rime.
If One all Ils, in one should perpetrate,
His Person should be priuiledg'd from hate
In loue, that makes men God-like: for, if God
Be grieu'd, where he hath cause to vse his Rod,
The griefe is for the Person, not the paine,
Which partly he, in loue, doth (so) sustaine.
He made not Death: nor, doth he take delight
To damne, for doing wrong; but, for his right:
Nor, for his right grieues soules to ruinate
But dy'd, in loue, to saue them from his hate.
The Iudge that would be lik'st him, when he giues
His Doome on the Delinquent most that grieues,
Of grace, to them, that (so condemn'd) are grac't.
Then, let no fault, how-euer capitall,
The faultie Person make so loth'd of al,
That he, for it, should so be'reft of heart,
As, in despaire, to wracke his better part.
Though one should ruine all the world, yet he
(If we could helpe it) should not damned be:
For, for but temp'rall faults, eternall Totters
We cannot wish t'our killers, and be Martyrs.
But, yet, (O yet!) To let the good-man die
For goodnesse shewne, without our lowdest cry
For Iustice, for so damn'd, so diu'lish Crime,
Were iust damnation to the Place and Time
Wherein we liue; and Priests might sermon thus;
“T'were better to be ill, than good, with vs.
For goodnesse shewne, without our lowdest cry
For Iustice, for so damn'd, so diu'lish Crime,
Were iust damnation to the Place and Time
Wherein we liue; and Priests might sermon thus;
“T'were better to be ill, than good, with vs.
Enough, for that: but, ne're enough of Him
That so was wrackt: Then, flow my Tears, & swim
Sad Muse therein, till thou attaine the Port
Of his Arts-fame, beneath his Good-report.
And yet that fame aboue our sight doth fly,
For rich composure in sweete Poesie;
And, percht so hie aboue our cunnings spheare,
That All may follow still; but, None come neere.
No Line in his rich-Numbers confluence
But more than bounds a boundlesse Sea of sense.
Through all the Cauernes of a Braine as pure
As euer did the Queene of Art immure
They glyded still, with vnconceiued sleight,
Yet they to view, transported his conceit.
Nor onely so; but, held the best things vaine
That easly fall into a world of Braine:
But onely that he tooke, that hardly fals
Into the Braines of Arts best Generals?
That ere his Theughts obiected were to sight,
Our Sense might wel perceiue his thoughts to fight
For place and grace, and all to grace his Wife
(Now matchles widow) were they thus in strife.
His Common-sense, and phantasie conuey'd
Their Obiects to his Iudgement, to be weigh'd
But for her vse; yet so, as hee is thought
To be the Best that euer Arte hath wrought.
That so was wrackt: Then, flow my Tears, & swim
Sad Muse therein, till thou attaine the Port
Of his Arts-fame, beneath his Good-report.
For rich composure in sweete Poesie;
And, percht so hie aboue our cunnings spheare,
That All may follow still; but, None come neere.
No Line in his rich-Numbers confluence
But more than bounds a boundlesse Sea of sense.
Through all the Cauernes of a Braine as pure
As euer did the Queene of Art immure
They glyded still, with vnconceiued sleight,
Yet they to view, transported his conceit.
Nor onely so; but, held the best things vaine
That easly fall into a world of Braine:
But onely that he tooke, that hardly fals
Into the Braines of Arts best Generals?
That ere his Theughts obiected were to sight,
Our Sense might wel perceiue his thoughts to fight
For place and grace, and all to grace his Wife
(Now matchles widow) were they thus in strife.
His Common-sense, and phantasie conuey'd
Their Obiects to his Iudgement, to be weigh'd
To be the Best that euer Arte hath wrought.
His Mindes cleare Eye pry'd narrowly, to spie
What well would grace her, yet it come to Eye.
Not like some idle Poets of our Time,
That ouersee great Reason, for small Ryme:
And from Inuention, take what comes vnwaigh'd
(By Iudgement, with the Understandings ayde)
To farse great Bookes, with Ignorance farre greater:
Which neretheless, oft better sell than better.
Minerua, mend this Misse: or take them hence,
That strangle innocent Intelligence,
With lines too rude for Mules: But our Apollo
Made none, that made not all his Priests to follow
Drawne by the Eares, to the Similitude
Of his Artes beauty, and Beatitude.
What well would grace her, yet it come to Eye.
Not like some idle Poets of our Time,
That ouersee great Reason, for small Ryme:
And from Inuention, take what comes vnwaigh'd
(By Iudgement, with the Understandings ayde)
To farse great Bookes, with Ignorance farre greater:
Which neretheless, oft better sell than better.
Minerua, mend this Misse: or take them hence,
That strangle innocent Intelligence,
With lines too rude for Mules: But our Apollo
Made none, that made not all his Priests to follow
Drawne by the Eares, to the Similitude
Of his Artes beauty, and Beatitude.
But, enuious FATE (vnable to abide
A Man, that was, like God, so glorifide
For faire Desert) with Uenom did inuent
A way to bane the wittiest Innocent
That euer dyde to liue: for, liue hee must,
And shall, in fame, a Martyr, in his dust.
For, wrackt he was for his Integrity,
By the high hand of Pow'r, and Iniury:
Who, for but leading blinded Loue aright,
Was (ah!) misdone by that Loues banefull spight.
A Man, that was, like God, so glorifide
For faire Desert) with Uenom did inuent
A way to bane the wittiest Innocent
That euer dyde to liue: for, liue hee must,
For, wrackt he was for his Integrity,
By the high hand of Pow'r, and Iniury:
Who, for but leading blinded Loue aright,
Was (ah!) misdone by that Loues banefull spight.
O pittie, past compare! O dire Euent
Of truest loues so laudable intent!
Words cannot vtter it; and Wit's too weake
To shew the ruth of it. Swell heart, and breake.
Of truest loues so laudable intent!
Words cannot vtter it; and Wit's too weake
To shew the ruth of it. Swell heart, and breake.
Then, sith nor words nor wit can ere suffise
To shew the ruth that from lesse fals doth rise;
And t'vndergoe the blaze of this distresse,
Makes my Pen straddle with the heauinesse,
Rest here sad Pen; sith all thy sable Teares
Are lighter than this Cause of cares and feares:
For, if from thee but one Teare should descend
So blacke as It, that Teare would feare a Fiend;
Or if, through thee, one Teare should fall in Print
So sad as it, that Teare would teare a Flint.
To shew the ruth that from lesse fals doth rise;
And t'vndergoe the blaze of this distresse,
Makes my Pen straddle with the heauinesse,
Rest here sad Pen; sith all thy sable Teares
Are lighter than this Cause of cares and feares:
For, if from thee but one Teare should descend
So blacke as It, that Teare would feare a Fiend;
Or if, through thee, one Teare should fall in Print
So sad as it, that Teare would teare a Flint.
I. D.
| A Select Second Hvsband for Sir Thomas Overbvries Wife | |