 | Poesis Rediviva |  |
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The Poet.
What art? thought below wise-men; yet 'bove ages;Can'st make sev'n lines, speak more then the sev'n Sages?
A name for Falkland, or th' Lord Digby fit?
Or the Elixir of Hugh Grotius wit?
Pacing in rithme no Poets makes; words fit,
High sense, soul quickning each part of it.
Phancies effluxions which with light do stream,
Each sentence gilding like a Solar beam.
No day can pass to write lends him no ray;
Nay makes ev'n night vie splendor with the day.
To feed on trash hath no green sickness Muse,
Through Wits obstructions a Cachexy shews:
No cup-froth'd fancy, sparkled wit from wine;
Sobriety waters vertues in each line.
None are born Poets, naturally some pace,
Shuffle in rithme, horse-like, without a grace.
His Helicon must flow from sweat of's brain;
And musing thoughts lend his Poetick vein;
Richer then those veins spring from heart of earth,
While Gold without an Ore he giveth birth.
Th' Philosophers Elixir in each line,
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Above the salts of Ciceronian wit,
Whose name can lend no grain to season it.
Nor Adages, nor Apophthegms new pick'd,
Bear-like nor form'd, nor handsom 'cause their lick'd,
Vents onely what mistaken Sages Coyn'd,
With the disguise of verse on what's purloin'd:
Unhappy fate of Poets to be poor,
All beg'd, or borrowed from anothers store.
He must have ravell'd times, and Kingdoms through,
And when the world oreview'd, can make a new.
A Plato's Commonwealth who can outdo?
A Mores Utopia, and Atlantis too.
Can challenge Titians, or our Vandickes hand;
Upbraiding nature whose rich pieces stand,
Not Zeuxes-like, paint grapes that birds draw nigh,
But red with blood of Families drunkards fly.
Pierces like lightning, yet not hurts the skin,
Though melts ith womb the conceived Child of sin.
At th' horror himself makes th' Tyrant fear,
While he's transform'd to Tyger, Wolf, or Bear.
'Bove th' Theban Harmony can structure raise
To Abrahams Sons, teach ev'n stones God to praise.
Make birdlim'd Avarice th' Idol gold to leave,
Think't pale with guilt, or gilt ore to deceive.
Into a scorch'd Amorist ice convey;
Calm rage, while reason passions storms obey.
Embalm'd with Odours virtue make perfume:
While purred vanity doth in stench consume.
Tainted with sour breath, rotten vice decaies:
Virtue is alwaies green like th' Poets bayes:
The Luxury of whose wit runs not to weeds;
But running up provides for knowledge seeds;
Who Eagle-like doth on a Pyramid sit
'Bove passions tempests, and a flashing wit:
Above the Clouds secure doth view the Sun:
And in a line like him inlightning run:
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And with intelligences trades for sight;
Thus to the Echoing Angels Moses sung;
And David's harps to Hallelujahs strung;
In proverbs glorious Solomon's aray'd;
From clouds of parable th' Gospel light displai'd,
Nor would it blasphemy be for to deny
The whole Creation ought but Poesie:
When God in number made, and measure all;
May we not truly term poeticall;
Six daies the order in Creation show,
Not how God made, but we th' worl'd made may know.
Lesse then a moment made it, a-sit lux
Stream'd out life, Essence, motion, times efflux:
The world as in a womb was in Gods mind:
Within himself all light, to make't outshin'd.
The Ridle destiny which unhinges brains,
Within him with whom all's present how remains?
Who preordains the things that present be:
'Tis God descends to us by Poesie.
Paul with such knots as these Christs Spouse hath drest,
Which to damnation the unstable wrest.
While Poet-like he acts the Carnal man,
They make him so, by their own lusts him scan:
Poets are Prophets, and the Priests of Heav'n:
Though to Hels mimicks Idol Priests th' names giv'n.
Into Jerusalem Lord turn Babylons flame,
The objects vary, yet the passions th' same.
Teach that love holinesse which no holinesse knew,
Let zeal inflame the hearts which lust did stew.
Thus holinesse to the Lord we all may sing,
To write take pinions from a Cherubs wing.
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