Virtus Rediviva Or a Panegyricke On the late King Charls the I. Second Monarch of Great Britain. By Tho. Forde |
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Fænestra in Pectore.
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Fænestra in Pectore.
OR, FAMILIAR LETTERS.
Quid melius desidiosus agam!—
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To Mr. E. B.
Bad, wicked warr. Anagr.
Honesty,
Now must my wearied fancy undertakeA tedious task: to seek I know not where,
Whom I shall find, alas! I know not when:
Yet on I must, bound by a thred of love,
Which happily may prove a clew to guide
Me in this wide Mæandring Labyrinth.
So have I seen (as groping in the dark)
An arrow shot at randome, hit the mark.
On then, my Pilgrim-pen, mask'd in the weeds
Of blackest sorrow; and with big swoln eyes,
Seek him thou canst not see: make hils & dales
Resound with thy loud voicing of that name,
Whose Eccho stands in competition with,
And far out-vies the musick of the Spheres:
At whose sole sound my duller senses dance
A Galliard; but that failing, lifeless stand.
Like that strange Lake, that whilst the musick sounds,
Doth flow in measures; and then ebb as fast,
When that doth cease. Or like the stones & trees
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Strike thou blest Lyre, and with thy musick call
My sorrow-fetter'd senses from the grave
Of lumpish grief; which Resurrection must
Only be wrought by thine all-charming pen:
Or else, as great Augustus, in a kiss,
Surrender'd up his latest breath unto
His dearest Livia; thereby making her
Sole Heir to that surviving part, which long,
By transmigration, lived in her breast.
So must my starved Hopes surrender to
Those long and fierce assailants, which besiege
Me, with their troops of fears, and pale despair,
If not relieved by thy timely quill.
But fear, like to a cunning enemy,
Doth labour to perswade my jealous thoughts,
That thou art not in a capacitie.
Now, therefore quickly, my Terpander, come
With thy Harmonious layes, allay these stirs,
And civil broyls, in my perplexed thoughts,
For fear they mutinie, and me betray.
Delay not, now, to give my fears the lye:
For, spinning out the thred of time, will make
But a sad woof to cloath my sorrows with,
And turn my Tragick verse to Elegies.
And thus my many feet have almost run
My fancie out of breath: Here I must rest,
And Tantalize with weary expectation,
Till mother-time (that's gravidated with
A dubious issue) be deliver'd of
A masculine, white boy of mirth, or with
A female Negro of grief; which will be
Strange welcome to
Your Servant, Allégre.
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FINIS.
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