Poems, and phancies written By the Thrice Noble, Illustrious, And Excellent Princess The Lady Marchioness of Newcastle [i.e. Margaret Cavendish]. The Second Impression, much Altered and Corrected |
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| THE CONCLUSION. |
 | Poems, and phancies |  |
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THE CONCLUSION.
The Common Fate of Books.
Books have the worst Fate, when they once are Read,They're laid aside, forgotten like the Dead:
Under a Heap of Dust they Buried lye,
Within a Vault of some small Library:
But Spiders, which Nature has taught to Spin,
For th'Love and Honour of this Art, since Men
Spin likewise all their Writings from their Brain,
A lasting Web of Fame thereby to Gain,
They do high Altars of thin Cobwebs raise,
Their Off'rings Flies, a Sacrifice of Praise.
Another of the Same.
VVhen as a Book doth from the Press come New,All Buy or Borrow it, that Book to View,
Not out of Love of Learning, or of Wit,
But to find Fault, that they may Censure it:
For did no Faults at all therein appear,
(Though few there are but do in something err)
Yet Malice with her Rankled Spleen and Spight,
Will at the Time, or Print, or Binding Bite:
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Then on their Bodies they their Witches set.
Of the Style of this Book.
I language want, to Dress my Fancies in,The Hair's uncurl'd, the Garments loose and thin;
Had they but Silver-lace, to make them Gay,
They'ld be more Courted, than in poor Array;
Or had they Art, would make a better show:
But they are Plain, yet Cleanly do they go.
The World in Bravery doth take delight,
And Glist'ring shews do more attract the Sight;
For every One doth honour a rich Hood,
As if the Outside made the Inside good;
And every One doth Bow, and give the Place,
Not to the Person but the Silver-lace.
Let me intreat ye' in my poor Book's behalf,
That all may not Adore the Golden Calf;
Consider pray, that Gold no Life doth bring,
And Life in Nature is the Richest thing:
So Fancy is the Soul in Poetry,
And if not good, the Poem ill must be:
Be Just, let Fancy have the upper place,
And then my Verses may perchance find Grace;
If Flatt'ring Language all the Passions rule,
Then Sense, I fear, will be a meer Dull Fool.
[A poet I am neither Born nor Bred]
A poet I am neither Born nor Bred,But to a VVitty Poet Married,
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Where Fancies grow, and where the Muses sing;
There oft I lean my Head, and List'ning hark,
T' observe his Words, and all his Fancies mark;
And from that Garden Flow'rs of Fancies take,
VVhereof a Posie up in Verse I make:
Thus I, that have no Garden of my own,
There gather Flowers, that are newly Blown.
| Poems, and phancies | |