Dia Poemata Poetick Feet Standing Upon Holy Ground: Or, Verses on certain Texts of Scripture. With Epigrams, &c. By E. E. [i.e. Edmund Elys] |
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To his honest Cousin, E. E. on his
Dia Poemata; or, his setting Feet on Holy ground.
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To his honest Cousin, E. E. on his Dia Poemata; or, his setting Feet on Holy ground.
Good
Iourney (Ned) at this first step thou'rt gone
Beyond the longest line my Muse e're spun.
But were I loose from Natures's tie, I then
Would roave out in thy praise like other men.
Ran but our Blood thin, as my Ink does now,
How clear, how quick Encomiums should flow?
Yet since thy divine Muse has testify'd,
We're onely Cozens on the Fathers side:
Ile dare to praise thy Muse, although not thee,
And Hum the Base to thy sweet Poetrie,
Laud modestly thy Wit, though not thy Brains,
Though we're ally'd in Blood, yet not in Veins.
Beyond the longest line my Muse e're spun.
But were I loose from Natures's tie, I then
Would roave out in thy praise like other men.
Ran but our Blood thin, as my Ink does now,
How clear, how quick Encomiums should flow?
Yet since thy divine Muse has testify'd,
We're onely Cozens on the Fathers side:
Ile dare to praise thy Muse, although not thee,
And Hum the Base to thy sweet Poetrie,
Laud modestly thy Wit, though not thy Brains,
Though we're ally'd in Blood, yet not in Veins.
'Tis true (our Modern Counsels voted it)
Good Verse is Scandall, nothing's Sin but Wit:
Yet could thy teeming Muse long since despise
The Humble Epithets of Good and Wise;
Let moulded Fancies, & worm eaten Brains,
Whose crawling Genii breed nought else but Pains,
Beg the salt Froth of an Adulterate Phrase
To season them, and pickle up their Praise.
Let addle Wits, Muses with stinking breath,
Yawn after Perfumes, and kiss sweet in death.
Let Chap-falne Hags, gnawing o're some tough Ditty,
Like Homer's Spittle, spue, and so seem witty.
Whom Phœbus Sun-burns, when he should inspire,
Cold crackling Cinders of Poetick Fire;
Faint dwindling lights, snuffs of old Virgin-tapers,
Useless to th' Muses but for blotting-papers:
Dry saplesse Poets, whose wan Poems are
Just as their Subjects, onely painted faire.
Let such crampt Phant'sies hop on crutches, 'las
They'l 'scape no Criticks Nose without a passe.
Take off the Pattens of your Approbation,
Their feet are all bemir'd and out of fashion.
'Tis thy diviner Muse with heav'n spun Layes,
Commands a Reverence, and begs not Praise.
One whose high birth boasts nobler parentage,
Than the poor grov'lling Songsters of our Age.
Whose squeaking Ela's never dare outstretch
The short breath'd quavers of some green-sick wretch:
Who scrue a sniv'lling Reed up, till it speaks
O're those black Crotchets, on their Mistresse cheeks.
Thy sanctifi'd Minerva, that sweet Shee,
Jove's brain sublim'd to holy Poetry,
Puts on her Sunday's dresse, and humbly comes
Without black Patches of Encomiums.
Prophaner Beauties stand her foils, the Arts
Are but mute Heraulds of her nobler parts.
No wanton Current of lascivious Blood
Plaies through her veins, but sober, chast, and good.
Whose azure colour speaks thus much (though all
Should contradict, they'r pure celestial.)
Thy stedfast feet not damn'd to giddy wheelings,
Lost in Meanders of their own wilde reelings,
Have got sure footing on the Holy land,
Where they two Pillars of Gods glory stand.
Thy Zealous Muse too keeps the precept sound,
Puts off her shoos because 'tis holy ground.
Her Helicon's no gold, nor silver stream,
But milk and honey flowing from thy Theam:
How'l Cleavelands Maccabees brook this abuse?
An holy Grace prophan'd into a Muse?
To see Apollo thus Evangelize?
And in Bethesda Helicon Baptise?
Now thy Angelick Muse has mov'd the waters,
Thou'st shown the way to our poor leprous creatures;
Our cripled Girls may tumble in, and so
Return all sound, if not to run, to goe
How'l our Pot-Poets belch up wit who can
Pisse wine out water, and so play the man
To see new Miracles? That power's Divine
Which turn'd thy Helicon to sacred Wine.
Good Verse is Scandall, nothing's Sin but Wit:
Yet could thy teeming Muse long since despise
The Humble Epithets of Good and Wise;
Whose crawling Genii breed nought else but Pains,
Beg the salt Froth of an Adulterate Phrase
To season them, and pickle up their Praise.
Let addle Wits, Muses with stinking breath,
Yawn after Perfumes, and kiss sweet in death.
Let Chap-falne Hags, gnawing o're some tough Ditty,
Like Homer's Spittle, spue, and so seem witty.
Whom Phœbus Sun-burns, when he should inspire,
Cold crackling Cinders of Poetick Fire;
Faint dwindling lights, snuffs of old Virgin-tapers,
Useless to th' Muses but for blotting-papers:
Dry saplesse Poets, whose wan Poems are
Just as their Subjects, onely painted faire.
Let such crampt Phant'sies hop on crutches, 'las
They'l 'scape no Criticks Nose without a passe.
Take off the Pattens of your Approbation,
Their feet are all bemir'd and out of fashion.
'Tis thy diviner Muse with heav'n spun Layes,
Commands a Reverence, and begs not Praise.
One whose high birth boasts nobler parentage,
Than the poor grov'lling Songsters of our Age.
The short breath'd quavers of some green-sick wretch:
Who scrue a sniv'lling Reed up, till it speaks
O're those black Crotchets, on their Mistresse cheeks.
Thy sanctifi'd Minerva, that sweet Shee,
Jove's brain sublim'd to holy Poetry,
Puts on her Sunday's dresse, and humbly comes
Without black Patches of Encomiums.
Prophaner Beauties stand her foils, the Arts
Are but mute Heraulds of her nobler parts.
No wanton Current of lascivious Blood
Plaies through her veins, but sober, chast, and good.
Whose azure colour speaks thus much (though all
Should contradict, they'r pure celestial.)
Thy stedfast feet not damn'd to giddy wheelings,
Lost in Meanders of their own wilde reelings,
Have got sure footing on the Holy land,
Where they two Pillars of Gods glory stand.
Thy Zealous Muse too keeps the precept sound,
Puts off her shoos because 'tis holy ground.
Her Helicon's no gold, nor silver stream,
But milk and honey flowing from thy Theam:
How'l Cleavelands Maccabees brook this abuse?
An holy Grace prophan'd into a Muse?
And in Bethesda Helicon Baptise?
Now thy Angelick Muse has mov'd the waters,
Thou'st shown the way to our poor leprous creatures;
Our cripled Girls may tumble in, and so
Return all sound, if not to run, to goe
How'l our Pot-Poets belch up wit who can
Pisse wine out water, and so play the man
To see new Miracles? That power's Divine
Which turn'd thy Helicon to sacred Wine.
Well Ned, march on, untill thy nimble feet
Out run thy Name, and sound a sad Retreat
To those fool hasty, hot spur wits, who can
Think for an Heav'n, ne're dream of Canaan. Farewell.
'Tis for such black Ægyptian wits as we,
Safe taking leave on this side the Red sea:
In Hippocrene, which once sprang earth, and found
For thee a Boat, our leaden wits lie drown'd.
Our slow Encomiasticks buz behind,
And spend their breath, all for a prosperous wind.
But since thou'rt safe in Canaan, thy praise
Is, thou'st worn out a wilderness of Bayes:
And wrought this happy Metamorphosis,
The Muses Garden now is Paradice.
There grows thy tree of life, and there let grow
That living Laurell shall surround thy Brow.
Onely, since thou hast won the Mount, O stoop
And lend a hand to help us Infants up.
Then shall we praise thee right, then onely we
Shall on thy shoulders see as far as thee.
Out run thy Name, and sound a sad Retreat
To those fool hasty, hot spur wits, who can
Think for an Heav'n, ne're dream of Canaan. Farewell.
'Tis for such black Ægyptian wits as we,
Safe taking leave on this side the Red sea:
In Hippocrene, which once sprang earth, and found
For thee a Boat, our leaden wits lie drown'd.
Our slow Encomiasticks buz behind,
And spend their breath, all for a prosperous wind.
But since thou'rt safe in Canaan, thy praise
Is, thou'st worn out a wilderness of Bayes:
And wrought this happy Metamorphosis,
The Muses Garden now is Paradice.
That living Laurell shall surround thy Brow.
Onely, since thou hast won the Mount, O stoop
And lend a hand to help us Infants up.
Then shall we praise thee right, then onely we
Shall on thy shoulders see as far as thee.
Clem. Elis Art. Bac. C. R. T.
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