Men-Miracles With other Poemes. By M. LL. St [i.e.Martin Lluelyn] |
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To my Ingenious Freind Captaine LL.
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 | Men-Miracles |  |
To my Ingenious Freind Captaine LL.
Freind, since thy Armed Thoughts hit those
Whose Lungs are Blasphemy and Prose;
Such Darts the Hebrew Poet threw
When Hell had garrison'd a Jew:
Thine's the same Charme; but the Cure's harder, when
Men possesse Devills, then when Devills men.
Whose Lungs are Blasphemy and Prose;
Such Darts the Hebrew Poet threw
When Hell had garrison'd a Jew:
Thine's the same Charme; but the Cure's harder, when
Men possesse Devills, then when Devills men.
Thy Work's Complection's full refin'd,
A quick cleare Braine, an honest Mind,
Not Wild, yet Strong; Powrfull, not Feirce;
Full, yet not Stuffd; a self weigh'd verse;
Thy Thoughts nor throng'd, nor routed, but display'd;
Each piece congeniall; yet both borne and made.
A quick cleare Braine, an honest Mind,
Not Wild, yet Strong; Powrfull, not Feirce;
Full, yet not Stuffd; a self weigh'd verse;
Thy Thoughts nor throng'd, nor routed, but display'd;
Each piece congeniall; yet both borne and made.
But Rimes are fatall, unlesse course,
Like Directories to doe worse:
Verse is but words in Tune, yet th' House
Wave Davids Psalmes, and choose Franck Rouse.
Thus we climbe downwards, and advance as much
As He that turn'd Donn's Poems into Dutch.
Like Directories to doe worse:
Verse is but words in Tune, yet th' House
Wave Davids Psalmes, and choose Franck Rouse.
Thus we climbe downwards, and advance as much
As He that turn'd Donn's Poems into Dutch.
No Fustian's here, All's pure and fit,
Not each where mirth, yet alwaies wir,
Strong, Sweet, like our Triumviri
(Masters, Diggs, Cartwright) Extasy!
They would have sprung New Mines, sav'd th' Old, if staid,
As now they fill that Breach falne Angels made.
Not each where mirth, yet alwaies wir,
Strong, Sweet, like our Triumviri
(Masters, Diggs, Cartwright) Extasy!
They would have sprung New Mines, sav'd th' Old, if staid,
As now they fill that Breach falne Angels made.
One great Man-Miracle you omit,
A Monster Presbyterian Wit!
Who swells, not rises, Bigge, not High,
When the poore sense lies gasping by;
Times once at best, mend not, and seldome stand,
Tis thus, when Women preach, and Slaves command.
A Monster Presbyterian Wit!
Who swells, not rises, Bigge, not High,
When the poore sense lies gasping by;
Times once at best, mend not, and seldome stand,
Tis thus, when Women preach, and Slaves command.
J. B.
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