 | Songs and other poems (1664) |  |
To his Ingenious Friend Mr. A. B. upon his most excellent Poems.
In
our late Chaos, when the giddy world
Was to th'Abysse of curs'd Rebellion hurl'd:
And its distemper'd Pilots did advance
Nothing but dull and sordid Ignorance;
When to be either learn'd, or witty, gave
Occasion to make this or t'other slave:
Then Atlas-like thou didst that world sustain,
Destin'd to thrive by thy Poetick-brain.
Was to th'Abysse of curs'd Rebellion hurl'd:
And its distemper'd Pilots did advance
Nothing but dull and sordid Ignorance;
When to be either learn'd, or witty, gave
Occasion to make this or t'other slave:
Then Atlas-like thou didst that world sustain,
Destin'd to thrive by thy Poetick-brain.
Divinity we there saw stifled, and
The Law was only practis'd under-hand:
The Glory of our School eclips'd; a shade,
No life, nor Beauty gave, but Horrour had
All Modes and Methods Ravish'd from our eye,
To cancel Name of King and Loyalty;
For each of which, thou mad'st a fit supply,
As some instruct their Boyes by Poesie.
The Law was only practis'd under-hand:
The Glory of our School eclips'd; a shade,
No life, nor Beauty gave, but Horrour had
All Modes and Methods Ravish'd from our eye,
To cancel Name of King and Loyalty;
For each of which, thou mad'st a fit supply,
As some instruct their Boyes by Poesie.
Nay Millions more had driven with that stream,
Had not thy sense and light diverted them,
Those who droop'd in despair, had drop'd away,
But Thy Prophetick Numbers made them stay;
And did re-animate their spirits here,
Fore-telling them their Sun would once uppear.
Had not thy sense and light diverted them,
But Thy Prophetick Numbers made them stay;
And did re-animate their spirits here,
Fore-telling them their Sun would once uppear.
Most of the younger Fry, that never saw
A Crown or Gospel flourish with the Law,
Had been deprav'd in soul, but that the Starre
(Thy Lines put forth) directed how and where
They ought to worship, so they were kept free
From the Times guilt, others Apostacie.
A Crown or Gospel flourish with the Law,
Had been deprav'd in soul, but that the Starre
(Thy Lines put forth) directed how and where
They ought to worship, so they were kept free
From the Times guilt, others Apostacie.
The puisne Law-wrights too may spare to look
On this grave Sirs reports, or t'others Book
For what's Authentique, but (at will) from thee,
May freight their Skuls with Law's Epitomie:
And henceforth we shall have them cease to Bawl
Cook upon Littleton, but Brome on all.
On this grave Sirs reports, or t'others Book
For what's Authentique, but (at will) from thee,
May freight their Skuls with Law's Epitomie:
And henceforth we shall have them cease to Bawl
Cook upon Littleton, but Brome on all.
The Brethren of the Crowd throughout the Town,
Who lost their time to keep't, were out of Tune
More than their Instruments; as if their Arts
Were meerly but to play, not play their parts,
Till furnish'd with a Song or two from you;
Then they grew proud upon't, and wealthy too;
Nor was't ill husbandry, or either's wrong,
To give, or get their money for a Song.
Who lost their time to keep't, were out of Tune
More than their Instruments; as if their Arts
Were meerly but to play, not play their parts,
Till furnish'd with a Song or two from you;
Then they grew proud upon't, and wealthy too;
Nor was't ill husbandry, or either's wrong,
To give, or get their money for a Song.
We find in every Science, Art, or Trade,
Ambition some Competitors has made;
But here THOU art particular, and like,
For Poesie, as Painting was Vandyke.
Ambition some Competitors has made;
But here THOU art particular, and like,
For Poesie, as Painting was Vandyke.
Such reputation hast thou gain'd, that when
A piece of Wit has by some other Men
Been richly cloath'd, and spoken; Hear their dooms,
Upon our lives, 'Tis Alexander Brome's.
But ------
As Pictures by their soyles seem better drest,
A piece of Wit has by some other Men
Been richly cloath'd, and spoken; Hear their dooms,
Upon our lives, 'Tis Alexander Brome's.
But ------
I can but be, Thy Blackamore at Best.
Valentine Oldis.
| Songs and other poems (1664) | |