 | Genuine Poems |  |
On Mr. Clieveland and his Poems.
Clieveland again his sacred head doth raise
Ev'n in the dust crown'd with immortal Bays,
Again with Verses arm'd, that once did fright
Lycambes's Daughters from the hated light,
Sets his bold foot on Reformations neck,
And triumphs o'r the vanquish'd Monster Smeck,
That Hydra whose proud heads did so encrease
That it deserv'd no less an Hercules.
This, this is he who in Poetick rage
With Scorpions lash'd the madness of the Age,
Who durst the fashions of the Times despise
And be a Wit when all mankind grew Wise,
When formal Beards at twenty one were seen
And Men grew Old almost as soon as Men,
Who in those days when Reason, Wit, and Sense
Were by the Zealots grave Impertinence
Ycleped Folly, and in Ve-ri-ty
Did savour rankly of Carnality,
When each notch'd Prentice might a Poet prove
For warbling through the Nose a Hymn of Love,
When Sage George Withers and Grave William Pryn
Himself might for a Poets share put in,
Yet then could write with so much art & skill
That Rome might envy his Satyrick Quill,
And crabbed Persius his hard lines give o'r,
And in disdain beat his brown Desk no more.
Ev'n in the dust crown'd with immortal Bays,
Again with Verses arm'd, that once did fright
Lycambes's Daughters from the hated light,
Sets his bold foot on Reformations neck,
And triumphs o'r the vanquish'd Monster Smeck,
That Hydra whose proud heads did so encrease
That it deserv'd no less an Hercules.
This, this is he who in Poetick rage
With Scorpions lash'd the madness of the Age,
Who durst the fashions of the Times despise
And be a Wit when all mankind grew Wise,
When formal Beards at twenty one were seen
And Men grew Old almost as soon as Men,
Who in those days when Reason, Wit, and Sense
Were by the Zealots grave Impertinence
Ycleped Folly, and in Ve-ri-ty
Did savour rankly of Carnality,
When each notch'd Prentice might a Poet prove
For warbling through the Nose a Hymn of Love,
When Sage George Withers and Grave William Pryn
Himself might for a Poets share put in,
Yet then could write with so much art & skill
That Rome might envy his Satyrick Quill,
And in disdain beat his brown Desk no more.
How I admire thee, Clieveland! when I weigh
Thy close wrought sense, and every line survey?
They are not like those things which some compose
Who in a Maze of words the wandring sense do loose,
Who spin one thought into so long a thread,
And beat their Wit too thin to make it spread;
Till 'tis too fine for our weak eyes to find
And dwindles into nothing in the end.
No; they're above the Genius of this Age
Each word of thine swells pregnant with a Page.
Then why do some Mens nicer Ears complain
Of the uneven harshness of thy strain?
Preferring to the Vigour of thy Muse
Some smooth, weak Rhymer, that so gently flows,
That Ladies may his easie strains admire
And melt like Wax before the softning fire.
Let such to Women write, you write to Men;
We study Thee, when we but Play with Them.
Thy close wrought sense, and every line survey?
They are not like those things which some compose
Who in a Maze of words the wandring sense do loose,
Who spin one thought into so long a thread,
And beat their Wit too thin to make it spread;
Till 'tis too fine for our weak eyes to find
And dwindles into nothing in the end.
No; they're above the Genius of this Age
Each word of thine swells pregnant with a Page.
Then why do some Mens nicer Ears complain
Of the uneven harshness of thy strain?
Preferring to the Vigour of thy Muse
Some smooth, weak Rhymer, that so gently flows,
That Ladies may his easie strains admire
And melt like Wax before the softning fire.
Let such to Women write, you write to Men;
We study Thee, when we but Play with Them.
By A. B.
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