 | Poems By John Hall |  |
34
To my honoured Noble friend Thomas Stanley Esquire, on his Poems.
Who would commend thee (friend!) & thinks 't may be
Performed by a faint Hyperbole
Might also call thee but a man, or dare
To praise thy Mistris with the term of Faire.
But I, the choisest of whose knowledge is
My knowing thee, cannot so grossely misse.
Since thou art set so high, no words can give
An equall character, but negative.
Substract the earth, and basenesse of this age,
Admit no wildfire in Poetick rage,
Cast out of learning whatsoever's vain,
Let Ignorance no more haunt Noblemen,
Nor humour Travellers, Let wits be free
From over-weening, and the rest is Thee.
Performed by a faint Hyperbole
Might also call thee but a man, or dare
To praise thy Mistris with the term of Faire.
But I, the choisest of whose knowledge is
My knowing thee, cannot so grossely misse.
Since thou art set so high, no words can give
An equall character, but negative.
Substract the earth, and basenesse of this age,
Admit no wildfire in Poetick rage,
Cast out of learning whatsoever's vain,
Let Ignorance no more haunt Noblemen,
Nor humour Travellers, Let wits be free
From over-weening, and the rest is Thee.
Thee noble soul! whose early flights are farre
Sublimer then old Eagles soarings are,
Who light'st Love's dying Torch with purer fire,
And breath'st new life into the Teian Lyre,
That Lov's best Secretaries that are past,
Liv'd they, might learn to love, and yet be chast.
Nay, Vestalls might as well such sonnets hear,
As keep their Vows and thy Black Riband wear;
So chast is all, that though in each line lie
More Amorettoe's then in Doris eye;
Yet so they're charm'd, that look'd upon they prove
Harmlesse as Chariessa's nightly love:
So powerfull is that tongue, that hand, that can
Make soft Jonickes turn grave Lydian;
How oft this heavy leaden Saturnine
And never elevated soul of mine,
Hath been pluck'd up by thee? and forc'd away
Enlarged from her still adhering clay!
How every line still pleas'd, when that was o're
I canceld it, and prais'd the other more!
That if thou writ'st but on, my thoughts shall be
Almost engulf'd in an infinity.
Sublimer then old Eagles soarings are,
Who light'st Love's dying Torch with purer fire,
And breath'st new life into the Teian Lyre,
That Lov's best Secretaries that are past,
Liv'd they, might learn to love, and yet be chast.
Nay, Vestalls might as well such sonnets hear,
35
So chast is all, that though in each line lie
More Amorettoe's then in Doris eye;
Yet so they're charm'd, that look'd upon they prove
Harmlesse as Chariessa's nightly love:
So powerfull is that tongue, that hand, that can
Make soft Jonickes turn grave Lydian;
How oft this heavy leaden Saturnine
And never elevated soul of mine,
Hath been pluck'd up by thee? and forc'd away
Enlarged from her still adhering clay!
How every line still pleas'd, when that was o're
I canceld it, and prais'd the other more!
That if thou writ'st but on, my thoughts shall be
Almost engulf'd in an infinity.
But dearest friend, what law's power ever gave
To make ones own free firstborn babe his slave,
Nay Manumise it, for what else wilt be
To strangle, but deny it liberty.
Once lend the World a day of thine, and fright
The trembling still-born children of the night.
That at the last, we undeceiv'd may see
Theirs were but Fancies, thine is Poetrey.
To make ones own free firstborn babe his slave,
Nay Manumise it, for what else wilt be
To strangle, but deny it liberty.
Once lend the World a day of thine, and fright
The trembling still-born children of the night.
That at the last, we undeceiv'd may see
Theirs were but Fancies, thine is Poetrey.
Sweet Swan of silver Thames! but onely she
Sings not till death, thou in thy Infancy.
Sings not till death, thou in thy Infancy.
| Poems By John Hall | |