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To Mr. T. J. on his Poems.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 



To Mr. T. J. on his Poems.

Much like a Pris'ner, that hath long time lay
In darksome Cells, without a glimps of day,
Dazled at first approach into the light,
Can scarce distinguish wher't be day or night;
So my abused Muse too long confin'd
To silence, by my negligence grew blind:
Her opticks are so weak, she can't discry
(Without her Spectacles) true Poetry:
Yet (thanks to great Apollo) she retains
A love of those that write Poetick strains;
She loves the name of Poet, though she be
Unskilful in the Art of Poesie:
She loves the company of those that write
Well-polisht verses, though she can't indite:
Such as whose wits t'illustrate all their theams
Fetch Pearls from th' depth of Heliconian streams:


This makes me hope they'l thrive, because desire
Is th' only way to gain Poetick fire;
And if by your good favour she obtain
More strength, that grace shan't be receiv'd in vain;
For she hath vow'd if e're such glorious rayes
Inlighten her to eccho forth your praise.