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The works of Sr William Davenant

... Consisting of Those which were formerly Printed, and Those which he design'd for the Press: Now published Out of the Authors Originall Copies
  

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To the Lady Bridget Kingsmill sent with Mellons after a report of my Death.
  
  
  
  
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To the Lady Bridget Kingsmill sent with Mellons after a report of my Death.

Madam, that Ghosts have walk'd; and kindly did
Convey Men heretofore to Money hid;
That they wear Chaines, which rattle 'till they make
More noyse, than injured Ale-wives at a Wake;
All this is free to faith, but Sozomine,
Nor th' Abbot Tretenheim, nor Rhodigine,
Nor the Jew Tripho, though they all defend
Such dreams, can urge one Ghost that verses pend:
Therefore, be pleas'd to think, when these are read;
I am no Ghost, nor have been three weeks dead.
Yet Poets that so nobly vaine have been,
To want so carelesly, till want prove sin;
Through avarice of late, to th' Arches sent,
To know the chief within my Testament:
And th' Aldermen by Charter, title lay
('Cause writ 'ith City's Verge) to my new play:
So if the Proclamations, kind, nice, care
Keep you not (Madam) from our black raw Aire,
Next Term, you'l find it own'd thus on each Wall
Writ by the Lord May'r, and acted at Guild-Hall.
But then I must be dead, which if you will
In curteous pitty feare, and suspect still;
These Mellons shall approach your pensive Eye,
Not as a Token but a Legacy.
Would they were such, as could have reach'd the sense,
To know what use they had of excellence,
Since destin'd to be yours; such as would be
(Now yours) justly ambitious of a Tree
To grow upon; scorne a dejected birth
Course German Tiles, low Stalkes, that lace the Earth.
Such as since gladly yours, got skill, and pow'r,
To choose the strongest Sun, and weakest Showre:
Such as in Groves Cecilian Lovers eat,
To cool those wishes, that their Ladies heat.
But if the Gard'ner make (like Adam) all
Our humane hopes, bold, and apocryphal:
And that my Mellons prove no better than
Those lovely Pompeon's, which in Berbican,
Fencers, and Vaulters Widows please to eat,
Not as a Sallad, but cheap-filling Meat;
Think then I'm dead indeed; and that they were
Early bequeath'd, but pay'd too late i'th Year;

220

So the just scornes, of your lov'd wit, no more
Can hazard me, but my Executor.