 | Men-Miracles |  |
To the Author.
If ever I beleiv'd Pythagoras,My dearest freind) even now it was,
While the grosse Bodies of the Poets die,
Their Soule doe onely shift. And Poesie
Transmigrates, not by chance, or lucke; for so
Great Virgils soule into a goose might go,
But that is still the labour of Joves braine,
And he divinely doth conveigh that veine:
So Chaucers learned soule in Spencer sung,
(Edmund the quaintest of the Fairy throng.)
And when that doubled Spirit quitted place,
It fill'd up Ben: and there it gained grace.
But this improved thing hath hover'd much.
And oft hath stoopt, and onely given a touch:
Not rested untill now, Randall it brush'd,
And with the fulnesse of its weight it crush'd.
It did thy Cartwright kisse, and Masters court,
Whose soules were both transfused in the sport.
Now more accomplish'd by those terse recruits,
It wooes thee (freind) with innocent salutes.
No Semeleian hugge suspect: doe thou
Vent as thy Vessell fils, as thou dost now.
Burst forth in sparkles, either write, or speake,
And thou art safe, That thou be not broke, breake.
E. G.
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