 | Men-Miracles |  |
To C. T. S.
Twas once the businesse of my Search to see
Where I might find Valour with Poësie.
But wearied out, and having tyr'd my view,
I find that mixture onely met in you.
Where I might find Valour with Poësie.
But wearied out, and having tyr'd my view,
I find that mixture onely met in you.
Old Homer raunts, as he to th' Campe being sent,
Tooke Pay in Agamemnon's Regiment.
He writes so feirce, that when his Poem's heard,
Me thinkes the Man had Priam by the Beard.
And that himselfe had beene of so much force,
T' have beene a Gallant Foale oth' Trojan Horse.
But he good Soule was borne so long behind,
He had not in that Warre Eyes to be blind.
Tooke Pay in Agamemnon's Regiment.
He writes so feirce, that when his Poem's heard,
Me thinkes the Man had Priam by the Beard.
And that himselfe had beene of so much force,
T' have beene a Gallant Foale oth' Trojan Horse.
But he good Soule was borne so long behind,
He had not in that Warre Eyes to be blind.
Nor was our Virgil of the Valiant breed,
He talkes all Trumpets, but preferres his Reed,
True, Little Horace fought, but lik'd the sport
So well, he soone exchang'd the Campe for th' Court.
Tis thought had not the Wight got thence the faster,
He might have beene the Tribunes Quarter-Master.
He talkes all Trumpets, but preferres his Reed,
True, Little Horace fought, but lik'd the sport
So well, he soone exchang'd the Campe for th' Court.
100
He might have beene the Tribunes Quarter-Master.
Ovid as farre as Sages understand,
Was ne're so much as one of the Traine-Band.
Not so much Souldier as our City Men,
Whom Wives and Caudles bravely heighten, when
They muster Hornes, and what their Dames admire,
March to the Front, then Winke, and then give Fire.
Was ne're so much as one of the Traine-Band.
Not so much Souldier as our City Men,
Whom Wives and Caudles bravely heighten, when
They muster Hornes, and what their Dames admire,
March to the Front, then Winke, and then give Fire.
Catullus, and Tibullus, and that other,
Whose Name for want of Rime to't, I must smother,
Put them together pray, if you can get 'em,
And if you thinke they meane to fight, eene let 'em.
But Lucan (Gallant Man) he stoutly stood,
Till his Soule floated through a Streame of bloud,
Till all his Veines rob'd of their Crimson juice,
Dry'd up, by th' Avarice of an open Sluce.
Yet his sad Fate trac't out no valiant Path,
His fall was sullied by his easie Bath.
Thus you exceed them all, for though you write,
Like them, 'tis onely like your selfe you fight.
Whose Name for want of Rime to't, I must smother,
Put them together pray, if you can get 'em,
And if you thinke they meane to fight, eene let 'em.
But Lucan (Gallant Man) he stoutly stood,
Till his Soule floated through a Streame of bloud,
Till all his Veines rob'd of their Crimson juice,
Dry'd up, by th' Avarice of an open Sluce.
Yet his sad Fate trac't out no valiant Path,
His fall was sullied by his easie Bath.
Thus you exceed them all, for though you write,
Like them, 'tis onely like your selfe you fight.
| Men-Miracles | |