University of Virginia Library

Encomiastick verses on several Books.

To my friend Mr. Thomas Randolph on his Play called the Entertainment, Printed by the name of the Muses Looking-Glass.

Some austere Cato's be that do not stick
To term all Poetry base that's Dramatick:
These contradict themselves; For bid them tell
How they like Poesie, and they'l answer well.
But as a stately Fabrick raised by
The curious Science of Geometrie,
If one side of the Machine perish, all
Participates with it a ruinous fall:
So they are enemies to Helicon,
That vow they love all Muses saving one.
Such supercilious humours I despise,
And like Thalia's harmless Comedies.
Thy entertainment had so good a Fate
That who soe're doth not admire thereat
Discloseth his own Ignorance; for no
True Moralist would be supposed thy foe.
In the pure Thespian Spring thou hast refin'd
Those harsh rude rules thy Author hath design'd:
And made those precepts which he did reherse
In heavy prose, to run in nimble verse.
The Stagarite will be slighted; who doth list
To read or see't becomes a Moralist:
And if his eyes and ears are worth thine Ore,
Learn more in two hours then two years before.
Thou hast my suffrage Friend; And I would fain
Be a Spectator of thy Scenes again.

To my friend Mr. Philip Massinger, on his Tragi-comedy called the Emperour of the East.

Suffer (my Friend) these lines to have the grace
That they may be a mole on Venus face:
There is no fault about thy book but this,
And it will shew how fair thine Emperour is.
Thou more then Poet! our Mercury, that art
Apollo's Messenger, and dost impart
His best expressions to our ears, live long
To purifie the slighted English Tongue.
That both the Nymphes of Tagus and of Po
May not henceforth despise our language so:
Nor could they do it if they ere had seen
The machless features of the Faery Queen;
Read Johnson, Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, or
Thy neat-lin'd pieces (skilful Massinger.)
Thou known, all the Castellians must confess
De Vega Carpio thy foil, and bless
His Language can translate thee, and the fine
Italian wits yield to this work of thine.
Were old Pythagoras alive again,
In thee he might finde reason to maintain
His Paradox, that Souls by transmigration
In divers bodies make their habitation:
And more; that all poetick Souls yet known
Are met in thee contracted into one.
This is a truth, not an applause; I am
One that at farthest distance view thy flame,
Yet dare pronounce, that were Apollo dead,
In thee his Poetry might all be read.
Forbear thy modesty: thy Emperours vein
Shall live admir'd, when Poets shall complain
It is a pattern of too high a reach,
And what great Phœbus might the muses teach.
Let it live therefore, and I dare be bold
To say, It with the world shall not grow old.

To my Friend Mr. Philip Massinger on his Tragi-comedy called the Maid of Honour.

Was not thine Emperour enough before
For thee to give, that thou dost give us more
I would be just but cannot; that I know
I did not slander, this I fear I do.
But pardon me if I offend; thy fire
Let equal poets praise whil'st I admire.
If any say that I enough have writ;
They are thy Foes, and envy at thy wit.
Believe not them nor me: they know thy Lines
Deserve applause, and speak against their mindes.
I out of Justice would commend thy Play:
But (Friend) forgive me, 'tis above my way.
One word, and I have done: and (from my heart)
Would I could speak the whole truth, not the part:
Because 'tis thine, It henceforth shall be said,
Not th'maid of honour, but the honour'd maid.

Of Mr. John Fletcher his Plays, and especially the Mad Lover.

Whil'st his well organ'd Body doth retreat
To it's first matter, and the formal heat
Triumphant fits in judgement to approve
Pieces above our Candor and our love;
Such as dare boldly venture to appear
Unto the curious eye, and Critick ear:
Lo! the Mad Lover in these various times
Is prest to life t'accuse us of our Crimes.
Whil'st Fletcher liv'd, who equal to him writ
Such lasting monuments of natural wit?
Others might draw their lines with sweat, like those
That with much pains a Garrison enclose,
Whil'st his sweet fluent vein did gently run
As uncontrol'd, and smoothly as the Sun.
After his Death our Theatres did make
Him in his own unequal'd Language speak:
And now (when all the Muses out of their
Approved modesty silent appear)
This Play of Fletchers braves the envious Light,
As wonder of our ears once, now our sight.
Three and fourfold blest Poet, who the lives
Of Poets and of Theatres survi'st!
A Groom or Ostler of some wit, may bring
His Pegasus to the Castalian Spring;
Boast he a Race ore the Pharsalian plain,
Or happy Tempe valley dares maintain;
Brag at one leap upon the double Cliffe
(Were it as high as monstrous Temariffe)
Of far renown'd Parnassus he will get,
And there t'amaze the world confirm his seat:
When our admired Fletcher vaunts not ought,
And slighted every thing he writ as nought;
Whil'st all our English wondring world (in's cause)
Made this great City eccho with applause:
Read him therefore all that can read, and those
That cannot, learn; If y'are not Learnings Foes,
And willfully resolved to refuse
The gentle Raptures of this happy Muse.
From thy great Constellation (noble Soul)
Look on this Kingdom, suffer not the whole
Spirit of Poesie retire to Heaven,
But make us entertain what thou hast given.
Earthquakes and thunder Diapasons make,
The Seas vast rore, and Irresistless shake
Of horrid winds a Sympathie compose;
So that in these there's musick in the close:
And (though they seem great discords in our ears)
The cause is not in them, but in our fears.
Granting them musick, how much sweeter's that
Mnemosyne's daughters voices do create?
Since Heaven, and earth, and Seas and air consent
To make an harmony (the Instrument
Their own agreeing selves) shall we refuse
The musick that the Deities do use?
Troy's ravish't Gamymed doth sing to Jove;
And Phœbus self playes on his Lyre above.
The Cretan Gods, or glorious men who will
Imitate right, must wonder at thy skill,
Best Poet of thy times! or he will prove
As mad, as thy brave Memnon was with love.

To my very good Friend Mr. Thomas Bancroft on his Works.

A done (my friend) lay pen and paper by,
Y'ave writ enough to reach eternity;
In soft Repose assume thy happy Sent
Among the Laureats to judge of wit:
Apollo now hath cal'd you to the Bench
For your sweet vein, and fluent eloquence;
Whose many works will all rare patterns stand,
And deathless Ornaments unto our Land,
Belov'd, admir'd and imitated by
All those great souls that honour poesie.
Against th'approch of thy last hour, when
He thee shall call from the abodes of men,
(In his own Quire (for thy exceeding Art)
Among renowned wits to sing a part)
Nor you, nor any friend need to prepare
Marble or brass a Pyramid to reare,
To thy continuall memory, nor with
A Mausoleum hope to make thee live:
All such materials time may devour,
But ore thy works shall never have a power.
While nimble Darwen Trent augments and while
The streams of Thames do glorifie our Isle,
And th'English tongue whiles any understand,
Thy lines shall be grace unto this Land.
Our Darbyshire (that never as I knew
Afforded us a Poet untill you)
You have redeem'd from obloquie, that it
Might boast of wooll, and lead, but not of wit.
Virgil (by's birth) to Mantua gave renown,
And sweet-tongu'd Ovid unto Sulmo town,
Catullus to Verona was a fame;
And you to Swarton will become the same.
Live then (my friend) immortally, and prove
Their envy that will not afford thee love.

To Mr. Humphry C. on his Poem entitled Loves Hawking Bag.

Sir, I applaud your enterprise, and say
Y'our undertaking was a bold assay:
But you have nobly don't, and we may read
A work that all old Poems doth exceed.
Avant you Grecian Mungrils, with your Scraps
Fal'n from blinde Homers, or did Hesiods chaps:
Musæus too (for all Scaligers cracking).
With Hero and Leander may be packing.
Virgil be gon! we hate thy slandrous tongue,
For doing the chast Queen of Carthage wrong.
Venusian Horace too hereafter may
Put up his pipes, and hearken to thy Lay.
Ovid, thy several witty Poems, all
From hence to Pontus into exile call.
Valerius Flaccus, hang thy Golden Fleece
Before some honest Tavern door in Greece.
Silius Italicus hence get thee far
With all the tumults of thy Punick war:
And Spanish Lucan quickly call away
Cæsar and Pompey to Pharsalia.
Statius thy Theban story leave to brag:
And listen all unto Loves-Hawking Bag.
Chaucer, we now commit thee to repose,
And care not for thy Romance of the Rose.
In thy grave at Saint Edmonds Bury, thy
Hector henceforth (Lydgate) may with thee ly;
Old Gower (in like manner) we despise,
Condemning him to silence for his Cryes.
And Spencer, all thy Knights may (from this time)
Go seek Adventures in another Clime.
These Poets were but Footposts that did come
Halting unto's, whom thou hast all outrun:
For Sol hath lent thee Pegasus the Nag,
To gallop to us with Loves-Hawking Bag;
And welcome (mighty Poet) that alone
Art fit to sit with Phœbus in his throne.

To Mr. James Stronge Bachelour, upon his wonderful Poem called Joanareidos.

What a fine piece of poetrie appears!
Such as hath not been seen these many years:
So strange for matter, and so strangly writ
That Joanareidos is matchless yet.
The Iliads and Odysses must give way,
And fam'd Ænæados yield up the day:
The high Austriados must also yield,
And Mortemeriados leave the field.
For where's that poet (all the world among)
That must not vail the bonnet to James Strong?
Thou bachelour of Arts, or rather bungler,
Or bachelour in life to whom the stronglier
(What else should move thee to commend thy sluts,
That might'st have spent thy time in cracking nuts,
Or looking birds-nests? or (what's best of these)
In eating butter'd cake, or tosted cheese)
Hail our James Strong! (Strong James!) whose every line
Draws like a cable all our wondring ey'ne,
And general applause from friends and foes,
And many strangers up and down (he trowes.)
O'tis a wondrous book; each word doth smell
As if't had something in it of a spell:
The lines are charming, and (if I guesse right)
They will bewitch women to scold and fight.
Old Robin Hood your western dames excel
Scarlet, and little John, and Adam Bell,
Clem of the Clough, and William Cloudeslee,
And all the out-laws of the Greenwood tree.
Had Guy of Warwicke, and the bold Sir Bevyes,
Stukely, and Jonny Armstrong made their levies
Of the most valiant Souldiers of their time,
And come to this siege, th'had been bet at Lime.
The Chubs in buff trembled, when (like to Turks)
The saw thy Joanes to rage upon the works,
They might have burnt their foes in piteous plight,
Had they but been their bed-fellows a night.
But oh! their fury was so rash, they kept
That fire within, for those they did protect:
So (for their zeal unto the Cause) perhaps
They pay'd them with a plaudite of claps.
Merciless then they were (there is no doubt)
That spar'd no friends within, nor foes without.
Nor within walls onely their valour lay,
But field too, as thy title page doth say:
And I believe their mettle they have shown
Under some Hedges, if the truth were known.
But I digress their power to relate,
It is a theme onely becomes thy pate.
I for thy pains (if such there can be found)
Wish thee one of thy Joanes, and that Joane sound;
That thou may'st lime her, and (on her) in time,
Beget a race of Joanes to fight for Lime.
O happy New-Inn-Hall! (where thou hadst luck
Such savoury dregs of poetry to suck)
For all will say it henceforth must excel
(For rhiming) Kates-Hall and Emanuel.
This Nation may report (upon their Oathes)
As Coriate did exceed for writing Prose;
So thou for penning an Heroick Song
Dost all surpass; In meeter being James Strong.

A Præludium to Mr. Richard Bromes Plays.

Then we shall still have Plays, and though they may
Not them in their full Glories yet display;
Yet we may please our selves by reading them,
Till a more noble Act this Act condemn.
Happy will that day be, which will advance
This Land from durt of precise Ignorance;
Distinguish moral vertue, and rich wit,
And graceful Action, from an unfit
Parenthesis of Coughes, and Hums and Haes,
Threshing of Cushions, and Tautologies:
Then the dull zelots shall give way, and fly,
Or be converted by bright Poesy;
Apollo may enlighten them, or els
In Scottish Grots they may conceal themselves.
Then shall learn'd Johnson reassume his Seat,
Revive the Phœnix by a second heat,
Create the Globe anew, and people it,
By those that flock to surfeit on his wit.
Judicious Beaumont, and th'ingenious soul
Of Fletcher too may move without control.
Shakespeare (most rich in humours) entertain
The crouded theatres with his happy vein.
D'avenant, and Massinger, and Sherly then
Shall be cri'd up again for famous men:
And the Dramatick Muse no longer prove
The peoples malice, but the peoples love.
Black, and White-Friars too shall flourish again,
Though here have been none since Queen Mary's reign:
Our theatres of lower note in those
More happy days shall scorn the rustick prose
Of a Jack-Pudding, and will please the Rout
With wit enough to bear their Credit out.
The Fortune will be lucky, see no more
Her Benches bare as they have stood before:
The Bull take Courage from applauses given,
To eccho to the Taurus in the heaven:
Lastly, Saint James may no Aversion show,
That Socks and Buskins tread his Stage below.
May this time quickly come, these days of bliss
Drive Ignorance down to the dark Abyss:
Then (with a justly attributed praise)
We'l change our faded Brome to deathless Bayes.

To my worthy, and learned Friend Mr. William Dugdale, upon his Warwickshire Illustrated.

They that have visited those forreign Lands
Whence Phœbus first our Hemisphere cōmands;
And they that have beheld those Climes, or Seas
Whence he removes to the Antipodes:
Have follow'd him his Circuit through, and been
In all those parts that day hath ever seen,
(Although their number surely is but few)
Have not (learn'd friend) travel'd so much as you;
Though in your study you have sat at home,
Without a mind about the world to rome.
Witnesse this so elaborate piece; how high
Have you oblig'd us by your Industry!
We may be careless of our fames, and slight
The pleasing trouble any books to write:
The Nobles and the Gentry (that have there
Concerne) shall live for ever in your Shire.
Our names shall be immortal, and when at
The period of inevitable fate
We do arrive, a poet needes not come
To grace an Herse with's Epicedium.
Marble and brass for tombes we now may spare,
And for an Epitaph forbear the Care:
For, for us all (unto our high content)
Your book will prove a lasting monument.
And such a work it is, that England must
Be proud of (if unto your merit just;)
A grace it will unto our Language be,
And Ornament to every Library.
No old, or modern rarity we boast,
Henceforth shall be in danger to be lost:
Your worthy book comes fortunately forth;
For it again hath builded Killingworth.
Maugre the rage of war or time to come
Aston shall flourish till the general doome:
And the Holts Progeny shall owe as much
Unto your lines, as him that made it such.
The Spires and walls of Coventry your pen
Hath built more lasting then the Hands of men.
The prospects of our noble seats you shall
Secure from any ruine may befall:
Our pleasant Warwick and her Castle (that
Surveyes the streams of Avon from her seat)
Your Labours more illustrious have made
Then all the Reparations they e're had.
Victorious Guy you have reviv'd, and he
Is now secure of Immortality.
Even my beloved Pooley that hath long
Groan'd underneath sinister fortunes wrong,
Your courteous eyes have look'd so kindly on,
That now it is to it's first splendor grown;
Shall slight times devastations, and o're
The banks of Anchor flourish evermore;
For there's such vertue in your powerful hand,
That every place you name shall ever stand.
The skilfullest Anatomist that yet
Upon an humane body e're did sit,
Did never so precisely show his Art,
As you have yours, in your Cornavian part:
You (in your way) do them in theirs exceed,
You make the dead to live, they spoil the dead.
Now Stratford upon Avon, we would choose
Thy gentle and ingenuous Shakespeare Muse,
(Were he among the living yet) to raise
T'our Antiquaries merit some just praise:
And sweet-tongu'd Drayton (that hath given renown.
Unto a poor (before) and obscure town,
Harsull) were he not fal'n into his tombe,
Would crown this work with an Encomium.
Our Warwick-shire the Heart of England is,
As you most evidently have prov'd by this;
Having it with more spirit dignifi'd,
Then all our English Counties are beside.
Hearts should be thankfull; therefore I obtrude
This testimony of my gratitude.
You do deserve more then we all can doe:
And so (most learned of my friends) Adieu.

To my learned friend Mr. Thomas Bancroft upon his Book of Satyres.

After a many works of divers kindes,
Your Muse to tread th'Aruncan path designes;
'Tis hard to write but Satyres in these dayes,
And yet to write good Satyres merits praise:
And such are yours, and such they will be found
By all clear Hearts, or penitent by their wound.
May you but understanding Readers meet,
And they will find your march on stedfast feet.
Although your honest hand seems not to stick
To search this Nations Ulcers to the quick,
Yet your Intent (with your Invective Strain)
Is but to lance, and then to cure again,
When all the putrid matter is drawn forth
That poisons precious Souls, & clouds their worth.
So old Petronius Arbiter appli'd
Corsives unto the age he did deride:
So Horace, Persius, Juvenal (among
Those ancient Romans) scourg'd the impious throng:
So Ariosto (in these later times)
Reprov'd his Italy for many crimes:
So learned Barclay let his Lashes fall
Heavy on some, to bring a cure to all.
So lately Withers (whom your Muse doth far
Transcend) did strike at things Irregular.
(But all in one t'include) So our prime wit
(In the too few short Satyres he hath writ)
Renowned Don hath so rebuk'd his times,
That he hath jear'd vice-lovers from their crimes.
Attended by your Satyres, mounted on
Your Muses Pegasus (my friend) be gone,
(As er'st the Lictors of the Romans went
With Rods and Axes (for the Punishment
Of Ill) born with them) that all vice may fly
(That dares not stand the Cure) when you draw nigh.

To my most honoured Cousin Mr. Charles Cotton the younger, upon his excellent Poems.

Bear back you Croud of Wits, that have so long
Been the prime Glory of the English tongue;
And room for our Arch-Poet make, and follow
His steps, as you would do your great Apollo:
Nor is he his Inferiour, for see
His Picture, and you'l say that this is he;
So young, and handsome both, so tress'd alike,
Thar curious Lilly, or most skil'd Vandike
Would prefer neither: Onely here's the odds,
This gives us better verse, then that the Gods.
Beware you Poets that (at distance) you
The reverence afford him that is due
Unto his mighty merit, and not dare
Your puny thrids with his lines to compare;
Lest (for so impious a pride) a worse
Then was Arachne's Fate, or Midas curse,
Posterity inflicts upon your fames,
For ventring to approch too near his Flames;
Whose all-commanding Muse disdains to be
Equal'd by any, in all Poesy.
As the presumptuous Son of Clymene
The Suns command importun'd for a day
Of his unwilling Father, and for so
Rash an attempt fell headlong into Po;
So you shall fall, or worse; not leave so much
As empty names, to show there once were such.
The Greek and Latine Language he commands,
So all that then was writ in both those Lands:
The French and the Italian he hath gain'd,
And all the wit that in them is contain'd:
So, if he pleases to translate a piece
From France, or Italy, Old Rome, or Greece,
The understanding Reader soon will find
It is the best of any of that kind;
But when he lets own rare Fancy loose
There is no flight so Noble as his Muse:
Treats he of War? Bellona doth advance,
And leads his March with her refulgent Lance:
Sings he of Love? Cupid about him lurks,
And Venus in her Chariot draws his works:
What e're his subject be, he'l make it fit
To live hereafter Emperour of wit.
He is the Muses Darling; All the Nine
Phœbus disclaim, and term him more Divine.
The wondrous Tasso that so long hath born
The sacred Laurel, shall remain forlorn:
Alonso de Ercilla that in strong
And mighty Lines hath Araucana song:
And Salust that the ancient Hebrew-story
Hath Poetiz'd, submit unto your Glory:
So the chief Swans of Tagus, Arne and Seine,
Must yield to Thames, and vail unto your streine.
Hail generous Magazin of Wit; you bright
Planet of Learning, dissipate the Night
Of Dulness, wherein us this Age involves,
And (from our Ignorance) redeem our soules.
A word at parting Sir, I could not choose
Thus to congratulate your happy Muse:
And (though I vilifie your worth) my zeal
(And so in mercy think) intended well.
The world wil find your Lines are great & stronge;
The Nihil Ultra of the English Tongue.

To my learned Friend Mr. Thomas Bancroft, on his Poem entituled the Heroick Lover.

From your retir'd abode in Bradley town
Welcome (my Friend) abroad to fair renown.
Nova Atlantis and Utopia you
Again expose unto the publick view
By your Heroick piece; unknown before
To all Mankind, but Bacon, and to More.
To the tripartite world Columbus er'st
The Western India discover'd first;
Yet after his more curious Survey
Vesputius much on's Glory took away,
By giving it his Name: So (though those two
Most learned Lords did first those countries shew)
You by your Antheon, and his fair delight
Far-sought Fidelta, skilfully unite
Utopia and Atlantis: what they two
Ow'd singly to their Pens, they both owe you.
Nor Belgium, Italy, nor France, nor Spain,
Nor Græcia, nor Sicilia could constrain
(With their most tempting Objects) your brave Knight
To yield submission to a false delight.
Although Sir Antheon did refrain to run
The monstrous Courses of the Knight o'th Sun,
(Whose Fablers so strange tales of him rehearse,
That such untruths never appear'd in'verse)
Those Countrey beauties he despis'd, and pelf;
Others o'recome others, but he himself:
And of all victories it is the best
To keep our own wilde appetites supprest.
Hereby his prowess he did most discover,
And hence you term him the Heroick Lover.
Your fair Fidelta did not range about
Utopian Cities to find Suitors out:
A free well-order'd house she kept, and there
Sir Antheon met with her, and married her.
Joy, or long life, I need not wish them either,
They in your Lines shall happy live for ever:
And you (for penning their high Epick Song)
With Laurel crown'd, shall live ith' Poets throng.