A Nights Search Discovering the Nature and Condition of Night-Walkers with their associats. Digested into a Poem by Hum. Mill |
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Ad amicum suum candidum, M. Humphredum Mill, de Poëmate faceto, cui Titulus A Nights Search.
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 | A Nights Search |  |
Ad amicum suum candidum, M. Humphredum Mill, de Poëmate faceto, cui Titulus A Nights Search.
Some
loose-lin'd Rimers by lascivious Layes,
Infect the Aire; thou justly bear'st the Bayes,
Thy quill commands a blessed Memory,
Coevall with Long-breath'd Eternity:
While thou by Practise and a Poets pen,
Dost lash the Brain-sick carriages of men;
And so discreetly on a various Matter,
Thy flowing Thoughts most variously dost scatter.
Infect the Aire; thou justly bear'st the Bayes,
Thy quill commands a blessed Memory,
Coevall with Long-breath'd Eternity:
While thou by Practise and a Poets pen,
Dost lash the Brain-sick carriages of men;
And so discreetly on a various Matter,
Thy flowing Thoughts most variously dost scatter.
Thy Nobler Muse, exiles a low-bred strain,
A starv'd conceit, or fancie from a Swaine:
Each verse a rapture is, and every word
A speaking sentence; measures all accord
By due proportion; in this verse of thine
There's no harsh accent, nor a maimed line.
A starv'd conceit, or fancie from a Swaine:
Each verse a rapture is, and every word
A speaking sentence; measures all accord
By due proportion; in this verse of thine
There's no harsh accent, nor a maimed line.
The sweetned musick of thy New-born lines,
Exceeds old Orpheus pipe, thou charm'st the Times.
While Mirth and Wit, with Modesty make head
To levell Vice, and strike prophanesse dead,
In this thy Search. That Surg'on wins my heart,
Who if he lance doth Anodyze the smart.
What though some Beefe-braines cannot trace thy pen,
But judge thee guilty, as the worst of men!
'Cause their low-fathomes, wedded to their Sense,
Can only judge of things ith' Present Tense!
Each Peasant cannot Cube, nor well discry
A Poets Spheare, because his Searching eye
Sublimes it selfe; we know that spotlesse name
Is wing'd abroad to wither'd Envies shame.
Exceeds old Orpheus pipe, thou charm'st the Times.
While Mirth and Wit, with Modesty make head
To levell Vice, and strike prophanesse dead,
Who if he lance doth Anodyze the smart.
What though some Beefe-braines cannot trace thy pen,
But judge thee guilty, as the worst of men!
'Cause their low-fathomes, wedded to their Sense,
Can only judge of things ith' Present Tense!
Each Peasant cannot Cube, nor well discry
A Poets Spheare, because his Searching eye
Sublimes it selfe; we know that spotlesse name
Is wing'd abroad to wither'd Envies shame.
But let it swell, this truth Ile safely say,
Thy Marshall'd Muse hath won the field to day;
That when thou pay'st the grave thy debt, To Die,
Will mount thy purchas'd glory to the skie.
Thy Marshall'd Muse hath won the field to day;
That when thou pay'st the grave thy debt, To Die,
Will mount thy purchas'd glory to the skie.
Brave Gallants that swear fealty to sin,
Yeeld Homage to a lust, or cursed Fien!
This book arrests you; bid your lusts adieu,
Shake hands with Vice, your Mistris, & that Crew;
Or read your Doome with silence, lest you feele
The circling lashes of his Scourge of steele.
Yeeld Homage to a lust, or cursed Fien!
This book arrests you; bid your lusts adieu,
Shake hands with Vice, your Mistris, & that Crew;
Or read your Doome with silence, lest you feele
The circling lashes of his Scourge of steele.
Sic approbavit Eliah Palmer, Londinensis.
| A Nights Search | |