University of Virginia Library

Il in sonio insonnadado.

Whhen (in the silent age of sable night)
The silver way with Phæbes glimring light,
And her attendants was adornd, and when
Fast slumbers scald the eyes of drowsie men,
I entred Morpheus Court, that Iv'ry port,
Whereat benighted phansies passe that sort
With reall good, sleepe was the Ianitor,
Who let me in without one crum of Ore,
Into the spacious hall, whose darksome flore,
With downie beds and quilts was paved ore,
Instead of Marble stones: here nuzzled both
The hated spawne of idlenesse and sloth,
Icilone and Phantaso, the one
Wrapt in a mantle set with starres and stones,
Checkerd with flowres, and trimd with antick shapes,
Playing with children, feathets, flies and Apes,
Blowing up spittle bladders: and the other
Stretcht on the bosome of his quiet mother,
Folded in furres and feathers, would not stirre
To earne a penny, or to please you Sir
With cap and curtsie: wondring much, to me
The winged post came with an Embassee,
I, frighted with his strange apparell, shrunke
Away, and closely into feathers sunke.
He smiling sayd, let not my strange arraying,
Kinde youth, beget amazement, or dismaying:
Ile show thee where in marshald order stray
Whole troopes of Laureats ensphear'd with Bay,
Then spread his winged sailes, and caught my haire,
Without a sence of motion through the aire,
Conducting me, through where the Salamander
(If faith b'historicall) does breath and wander,
Then throgh those glorious orbs, enricht with gems,
The palaces of seven Diadems.
Then throgh the firmament, where glittring spangs,
Like blazing Topazes, in Chrystal hangs,
Three stories higher was the Galupin
Where Iove was frolick with his goddy kin;
Hither was I uplifted, then mine eye
Besprinkled was by nimble Mercurie,
With liquor, which with strength did me endue
T' abide the presence of th'immortall crue,
The whispring vaults I opened of my braine,
The counsels of the gods to entertaine,
And fearing memorie, with short-liv'd chalke,
(Wanting the tongue of paper) writ their talke;
The Patron of Parnassus and the nine,
To Iove presented and the rest divine,
Their suites with comely grace and majestie.
But Phœbus was the Oratour; Loe I,
Thy daughters undertooke to patronize,
Great Emperour of the Christall spangled skies,
And shield their measures from the sullen rage
Of envious ignorance this Criticke age;
(For none inveigh against Poetick measures,
But those that never had Pandora's treasures)
Yet such a shoale of ignorants I finde,
'Tis thought the greater part oth' world is blinde,
That maugre all my scourges, in the dark
Against the Muses they will snarle and bark.
Let winged-sandald Hermes post to call
And summon them unto thy judgment Hall,
That you may know their rage is want of braines.
Hermes took post, and brought the silly traines,
Iove wav'd his scepter, and commanded hush,
Then calles a gawdie peece of emptie plush,
And askt what hee could say 'gainst Poetry?
Hah, hah, quoth he, and fleer'd with blinking eye,
I have a mistresse (then begins a tale,
Which made Iove call for some Nectarean Ale,
To arme his eares 'gainst non-sence, and his side
'Gainst laughters furie) has too much of pride,
Shee's faire, as is a wall new parg'd with lime,
Shee's wise enough; for age, shee's in her prime,
I vow her service, but shee slights me, why?
Marry, I dave no veine in Poesie,
But what I take on trust, oth' second hand,
Shee jeeres and sayes, this cannot well be scand,
This has a foot too little, that too much,
This is a borrowd line, she knowes't byth' touch,
Tells me the double Indies shall not gaine
Her love, without the smirke, Poetick vaine,
Despairing I against the Muses rayle,
And wisht my hands had crusted been with flaile,
Then should not I have needed Proxee-verse,
T'have wonne a milk-mayd, neither coy nor terse,
Tush, say I, Madam, this same ragged crue
Of rithming dizzards, are not worthy you.
Plato exil'd them from his common-weal,
Their tongues will flatter, and their fingers steale.
Mere sycophants, that for a trencher-bit,
Will sweare y'ave beautie mixt with purest wit.
And if you anger them, will in a rage
Vnsay't, and raile gainst you, your sex, and age.
Hundred invectives more, I often use
Against the Poet and his strumpet Muse;
But I protest, tis to disswade my Lady:
For had I wit, Phœbus should be my Dady.
Then sacred sisters I emplore your Bayes,
Make me a Bard, and Ile descant your prayse.
No quoth the Muses Helicon nere brookes
T' have servants which doe weare such simple look,
So sent him packing with a flea in's eare,
Apollo cald another to appeare,
A feeble braine, that at a gen'rall dye
Had got the sable hue of infamie:
He buzzles like a bustard in a winde,
And with his aio's strikes the vulgar blinde,
In whom, if we beleeve Pythagoras,
I thinke the soule of Battus housed was:
He is demanded why he thus does bawle
Gainst soaring wits, not worms that earthly crawle?
Clothing his face with impudence, his lookes
With pride; and with high selfe-conceit (his bookes,
So are his words, he speakes in print) why, why,
Have I not cause t'exclaime on Poesie?
I'me a Divine, not a fond pratling Poet,
I am a Preacher I would have you know it.
Peace arrogant, sayes Hermes, else Ile drive
Thee quick into the black infernall hive.
There was a time when thou admir'dst with praise
Each sprig of Lawrell, slip of youthfull Bayes.
But Envie's master now, or th' cause of it
Is, thou nere hop'st t'attaine that height of wit.
But say the truth, (yet truth will scarce abide thee)
Are there not some that jeere and doe deride thee
In lofty measures, and thou wanting skill
To vindicate thy credit by thy quill?
Do'st scold? Quoth he, I doe acknowledge it,
I blam'd the Muses, 'cause I wanted wit,
And darted scandals at Apollo's Lyre,
Yet pardon, mightie Æsculapius Syre,
And yee blest goddesses, my grand offence,
And on your Altars Ile burne frankincense.
Nay, build rich Trophies unto Poetrie.
Tis good to see a convert minde, stand by
Apollo sayd; sayes Vulcan by the Masse,
I have espyd a plumpe-cheekt bonnie lasse,
She is a wrig I warrant, where's my wife?
Oh! tis a hell to live a coupled life.
Thus did the Black-smith mutter, till Apollo
Cited the damsell with a gentle hollo.
Vp comes the Margit with a mincing pace,
A Citie-stride, Court-garbe, and smirking face,
So curtsy'd to the gods, yet twas but short.
Then sayes Apollo, (meaning to make sport)
What occupation use you, Art or Trade?
Are you a Virgine? Yes, a chamber-mayd
Forsooth I am, I have my virgine seale,
To honest Vulcan I dare make m'appeale,
Heel pawne his head, had I kept Venus roome,
Mars had not dub'd him with Actæons doome.
A merry wench in faith sayes Iove: yet stay,
To serious parle let's fall from wanton play,
You are accus'd, as one that does condemne
And boldly scoffe the Laurell Diadem.
I once, quoth she, admir'd them all, untill
I found my prayse returnd but traffique ill:
For when I prais'd, they praysed me againe,
So I had onely prayses for my paine.
Then wittily I oftentimes would flout,
And say the Poets was a needie rout:
Of all professions sure it was the worst,
Iust like the Cockatrice, ith' shell accurst,
With many more, yet though our tongues did jarre,
Our quarrell ended in a lippy warre.
We kist, to friendship like the nurse and child,
And there she stopt: whereat the heavens smild.
Then came a Serving-man, a blunt old knave,
That dar'd Parnassus with a sawcie brave,
In youth sayes he, I rim'd, and framed notes
To Pans choyce musicke, & the sheepheards throats,
And many a lusty bowle of creame have got
For Kates three brace of rimes, which was God wot,
But once remov'd from prose, and for a song
The iron-hoofed Hobs 'bout me did throng,
But now old age my wit and fancie nips,
I gaule the Muses with satyricke quips,
Yet might I with the Eagle cast my Bill,
And gaine my youth, I would regaine my skill.
This done, the Pursevant Apollo posts
T' Elizium, to call the Poets ghosts,
That payd th' infernall Ferry-man his fee:
There saw I Homer, but he saw not mee,
Lascivious Ovid, and Virgilius grave,
Satyricke Iuvenal, and Martial brave,
Splay-footed Plautus, limping Ennius,
Propertius, Horace, and Boethius.
Amongst the Modernes came the Fairy Queene,
Old Geffrey, Sidney, Drayton, Randolph, Greene,
The double Beaumonde, Drummond, Browne,
Each had his chaplet, and his Ivie crowne.
How rested yee amidst those gloomie shades?
Sayes Iupiter? see yee not other trades
Learnings and Sciences have constant springs,
Summers and Autumnes without winterings?
They'l have no hail-stormes, fleezie rain, nor frost,,
They'r kin to rimes: winter must not be lost:
A pregnant witted Bard did silence breake,
Homer 'twas not, hee could not see to speake.
Virgil it was not, he had got a wrench,
Nor B. nor M. for they had got a wench.
Ennius was lame, and much did feare his shins,
Horace was busie with the kilderkins.
Ovid employd with his beloved Flea,
Old Geffrey's language was not fit for plea:
Draiton on's brains a new Moon Calfe was getting,,
And testie Drummond could not speake for fretting.
I knew the Roscians feature, not his name,
Yet tis engraven on the Shaulme of Fame;
With setled grace he boldly did advance
Father of gods, king of the large expanse.
We oft have heard proud Envie belching forth
Fogs, mists and fumes, t'eclipse the metrick worth,
And know the teeming world did never nurse
So great a mischiefe as the Criticke curse:
Our soules one minute have not rested quiet,
Since carpes we know was Ignoramus diet.
If Wisedomes Fæcial call to the sand,
We have revenge, our standish is at hand.
That rights our wrongs, but gainst Don Sillies railes
The fist is heav'd, for paper nought availes:
We sate in counsell, did intend to sue
With a petition to this noble crue,
The substance this, that ye would either give
Wit and discretion unto all that live,
Or make them Ideots, depriv'd of reason,
Else but to speake, let it be counted treason.
But we appeale, great gods, tis now my theame,
To cleare from mud pure, Aganippa's streame:
Assist Pierides, maintaine your sires
With greater care than can the Vestals theirs,
Tis merely losse of time and paper both,
By refutation to chastise their sloth.
Then I the juice of Helicon will sup,
Not in nut-shell, but Colocassian cup,
Shall make my phansie catch at nought but gems,
And wreath the Muses browes with diadems.
Me thinkes this draught such vertue does infuse,
As if in every sence there dwelt a Muse,
A spirit of valour, to un-god great warre,
Should he but send a ramme; but to the barre,
Who knowes not Vaticinium does imply
In equall measures verse and prophesie.
An inspiration, a celestiall touch,
Such is the Poets raptures, Prophets such:
Vates a Bard, and him that does presage
Vaticinor possest with either rage.
Poema is a booke in numbers fram'd,
Fast cemented with sence, by working nam'd,
To which the choycest Oratour stands bare,
Poesies does in a sublimer aire,
Things humane and divine expose to view.
The first Philosophie that Fame ere knew,
Was honourd with the name of Poetrie,
Enricht with rules of pure moralitie.
Reading instructions unto heathen men,
With more contentment than the Stoicks pen,
The ancients unto Poets onely gave
The Epithites of wise, divine and grave,
Because their meeters taught the world to know
To whom they did their holy worship owe.
The Greeke is free and kinder in her praise
Which she bestowes upon Poetick Layes,
She calles all that which takes not essence by
A matter pre-existent, Poesie.
So makes the world a Poem, and by this
The great creator a great Poet is.
Nay more, that language on the Nine bestowes,
(As ev'ry callent of that Idiom knowes)
In her etimologues an higher grace,
Calles them παιδευτας, and whose measures trace
The steps of Nature, humane and divine,
The abstruse mysteries of both untwine,
Vnlock the exta of each Science, Art,
By cunning search; againe, not as a part
Nor a grand columne onely, but entreasures
The soule of learning in the Poets measures.
All other Arts (which use and learning gave)
Precepts and rules, as sure foundations, have,
When as the Poets pen alone's enspir'd
With high Enthusiasmes, by heaven fir'd,
Ennius them holy calles, and Plato sayes,
Furies divine are in the Poets layes;
Nor wanted hee himselfe the Poets wit,
He Dithyrambos and love passions writ.
The Regall Prophet was a true borne Poet,
As to the life his well-tun'd meeters show it,
Compos'd to musicke by that holy man,
Ere Hopkins and Sternhold knew how to scan.
Hence Chicken-Augures with your crooked staves,
Whose rash conjectures crowne and dig us graves.
A loftie fansie steeped in the fount
Of Pegasus, an higher pitch can mount.
Sibylline Oracles did speake in verse,
Their scatterd leaves in measures did rehearse
The mysteries of mans redemption, by
The incarnation of a deitie.
Grave Maro, I remember, in an Ode,
An Eclogue, treades the same Prophetick rode.
Those famous Druides renownd of late,
Treated at large oth' soules immortall state.
Mans spirit does not to the gloomie shade
Of Erebus, ore black Cocytus wade.
Death sets no period, is the lesser part
Of humane life, for the same breath does dart
Vigor to every sinew in the bulke.
Man lives as freely in another hulke,
Who readeth Ovids Metamorphosin,
And thinkes not Moses soule was sheathed in
His body, by a transmigration?
He from the chaos tels the worlds plantation.
Maro accords, and gives the world a soule,
Which does this well-compacted lumpe controule;
And by illumination he discoverd
How then the spirit ore the water hoverd.
Th'inspired pen of old Pythagoras
By Nasos guide, relates, how in this masse
All things doe alter shape, yet soone Dame Nature
Of one forme lost, informes another feature,
No substances nothinged in this large globe,
But gainst some feast puts on a newer robe.
The earth resolv'd to water, rarefies,
Into pure aire the thinner water flies,
The purer aire assumes a scorching heate:
They back returning, orderly retreate,
Those subtile sparkes converted are to breath,
The spissye aire, being doomed unto death,
Turnes into sea, earth's made a thickned water.
Thus wily Nature is a strange translater.
My Lady Readers, I refer to sands,
But the grave learned unto Ovids hands.
Nor Seneca divine wants prophesies,
Neare to the death of time an age shall rise,
In which, sayes he, the Ocean shall untye
The watry bands of things, and to the eye
Of Typhis, a new world appeare
Vnheard before, by the most itching eare,
In glory matching this Then Thule no more
Shall be th' earths ne plus ultra, bound or dore,
Our eights ith'hundred wold large heaps of treasures
Set in their wills to buy Zorastus measures.
Masse-priests for Dirges then would loose their fee,
These would the surest de profundis be.
Shopsters and gallants to his house would hop,
More than t'Exchanges, or Canary-shop.
And Poets briske would have a larger dealth
Than holy Confessours, of dead mens wealth.
I might be infinite, should I but show
For what grave Arts the world to Poets owe.
Apelles had not been without Parnasse,
The pensils worth had onely dwelt on glasse,
Or dusty tablets, guided by those Apes,
In imitation of some antick shapes.
Venus a portraict had, Pigmalion mist
That speechlesse female which he hugd and kist,
Had not th'enlivening breath of Poetrie
T'a higher pitch reard up dull phantasie.
How quickly worthy acts of famous men,
Dy'd in the waine of our poetick pen?
How rudely by the Monkes (which onely had
The key of learning) were their actions clad,
King Ethelbert's clos'd in his Poliander,
To Christ for Church buildings, he's gone without Mæander
Such stuffe the tombes of Bede and Petrarch have,
The razor from all Monkey pates did shave
Wit with their haire, except in Mantuan
Re-teind by Vida and Politian,
And many others was this glorious Sun
Which glitter shall till earths last thread be spun,
We raise shall Obeliskes by Apollos breath,
Which owe no homage to the rage of death.
By pen Honterus creatures limb'd to life,
Better than could the Cynicke with his knife.
Pliny compared unto him, did erre,
He was a Chymick and Cosmographer.
How bravely does the Scottish Bard depinge
The planets order, and the Sphericke hinge.
Brave Petrarch, Latin'd by our learned clarke,
Lights us a lampe to guide us in this darke
And critick age, sayes, that stout Alexander,
(Whose warlicke steps ore all this globe did wander)
Fixing on brave Pelides tombe his eye,
Wrapt with a noble envie, lowd did cry,
Happy, O happy thou, whose actions still
Live, being enbreath'd by the immortall quill,
Of worthy Homer! nay, when his sword had gaind
Those wealthy realmes, ore which Darius raignd.
He mongst his treasures found a casket faire,
So set with gold and gems, it rayd the aire,
And cald in day despight of clowds or nights,
Yet the best use (as grave Patricius writes)
This cabinet could serve to, was t'entombe
Homers choyce Iliads in his glorious wombe.
Of Zoaraflus now some wonders heare,
And barrell his disciples in thine eare,
Whose rithmes could charme foule Cerbers bawling tongue,
And pick hels lock with his inchanting song.
From Stygian shade conducting whom they listed,
And whom they pleas'd with hellish fogs be misted.
Oh golden meeters, rimes out-worthing gold,
At what high prices would they now be sold
If they were extant! Friend for friend would sell
Lordships, bookes, banners, to redeeme from hell
How many ages has those Greekes surviv'd,
(Than all their predecessors longer liv'd)
Which showd their noble worths at Iliums grave?
Yet thrice Nestorean age them Homer gave:
How bravely Lucan tels succeeding ages
The seven-hilled cities bloody rages.
Moyst clowdes long since, have washt the purpled grasse,
Yet red as ever 'tis in Lucans glasse.
To Carthage Queene the wandring Trojan Prince
Pretended love, but dead it is long since,
And dust are they, yet Virgils loftie verse
Makes him speak wars, she love, from under th'herse.
Long since did Hellespont gulpe in Leander,
When he presum'd on naked breast to wander.
Hero's watch-candle's out, they vanisht quite,
Yet Ovid fayes, all was but yester-night.
A great while since the cheating Miller stole
The Schollers meale by a quadruple tole,
They gave him th' horn-booke, taught his daughter Greek
Yet look in Chaucer, done the other week.
I'rne-sinewd Talus with his steely flaile,
Long since ith' right of justice did prevaile
Vnder the Scepter of the Fairy Queene,
Yet Spencers loftie measures makes it greene.
Dun was a Poet, and a grave Divine,
Highly esteemed for the sacred Nine,
That after times shall say whilest theres a Sun,
This Verse, this Sermon was compos'd by Dun.
What by heroick acts to man accrues,
When grisely Charon for his wastage sues,
If his great grand-childe, and his grand-childes son,
May not the honours, which his sword hath won.
Read, grav'd on paper by a Poets pen,
When marble monuments are dust, and when
Time has eat off his paint, and letterd gold,
For verse alone keepes honour out oth' mold.
The presse successively gives birth to verse:
Shall steely Tombes out-live the Buckram herse?
To other things the same proportion hold,
Pure rimes, which loftie volumes doe enfold.
Autumnall frosts would nip the double Rose,
If cherisht onely by the breath of Prose.
Beautie of beautie's not the smallest part,
Which is bestowed by our liberall Art.
Orpheus, Arion, and the scraping crue,
To wyre and parched guts may bid adiew,
Or audience beg, wer't not for sprightfull Bayes,
Which to the strings composeth merry Layes,
But with the Muses I'me so faln in love,
That I forget thy presence, mightie Iove,
And through the spacious universe doe walke,
Bur this shall set a period to my talke.
Iove stretcht his Scepter then with frolick grace,
And joy triumphed on the heavens face,
The Orbes made Musicke, and the Planets danced,
The Muses glory was by all enhanced:
Iove then intended for to ratifie
Decrees in the behoofe of Poesie,
Giving the Bards his hand to kisse, and made
Chaplets of Lawrel, which should never fade.
But Vulcan to Gradive plac't in oppose,
Was nodding fast, and bellowing through the nose,
His armed brow fell downe, and lighting right,
His antlers did the marching god unsight.
Mars fum'd, the gods laught out, the sphears did shake
At which shrill noyse I starting did awake,
And looking up, (East having op't his dores)
Amazed I beheld a troope of scores,
And wondring, thought they'd been Ale-debts, but found
I them had chalked in my dreaming swound.
I trow not the decree, 'twas Vulcans fault,
Yet dreames are seldome sound, like him they halt.
Take this, and if I can so happy be,
Ile write in my next slumbers, the Decree.