University of Virginia Library

Great Nature, hail!
Who over mankind do'st prevail.
Queen Regent of this sublunary Frame,
Distinguish't by what ever Name,
For Metaphysick Notions I lay by,
Thin subtleties for me too high.
Such Thee define
To be the Art Divine,
Or the eternal fixt decree,
From all inferiour appealments free;
The fil'd Record in Heaven's high Chancery:
This is methinks an over-rate
Or they confound thy State;
Not well distinguishing 'twixt thee and Fate.
Such mystick definitions puzzle more,
Blinding Eyes but dim before.
Whose studies, like your Oxford's, seem to be
The Magick of Divinity.

Be what it will,
In me—It shews its magick skill.
Is pow'rful charms to Poetry inclin'd
My youthful mind.
Castalian Liquor did imbue
My Vessel whilst 't were new.
No other relish it will own.
Each drop that from the Dregs is spilt,
(For now I am o'th' Tilt)
Has some small taste of Helicon.
Nor herein will I Nature blame;
Let great and rich-Men bustle for a name;
We, we must raise their fame.
That's more for ours, than their Renown,
'Tis a Regalio of Apollo's Crown,
From him all beams of Glory flow;
Heroes are mighty things indeed but Poets make 'em so.

From this imperial height to which I'm flown
I tumble down.
Give me a Cypress not a Lawrel Crown!
With detestation, I espy
The Scandals upon Poetry.
Shall burning Lust be said or heating Wine,
The breasts of Poets to refine;
Is the Bay more freshly leav'd,
When with the Vine 'tis interweav'd?
Coy Daphne, silence break;
Let thy Rind chap into a Mouth, and speak.
Would not Apollo's Rape more grateful be
Than Bacchus Love, tho he should marry thee?
Can we produce no happy thought,
Unless betwixt a Muse and Satyr got?
Have those chast Virgins chang'd their loves,
And left Pierian Groves,
To ramble up and down,
And be like Misses of the Town?
Say whether fate is more renown'd
To be a Dutchess crown'd;
Or with immortal Glories shining round?

Nature—I cannot yet define;
More fit for some Seraphical Divine:
Tho they but Graces three, and we have Muses nine.
To wreaths of Bay they have sufficient claim,
Their Sions holy Hill
Out-rivals our Parnassus in its fame.
And Hermon's sacred Dew
Will give an Influence as true
As Aganippe's Rill.
Priests we are both alike, and both alike are fir'd
With sacred heat: Poets have been inspir'd,
Shar'd in their gifts of Prophecy,
As they in ours of Poetry,
And both have Lawrels won;
They have their Doctor Sprat, & had their Doctor Donne.

Nor do we come behind.
The Muses, and the Graces too
Have Lay-men courted oft, and yet they do,
And some of us too are to them inclin'd.
David the golden Age did gild;
His Harp, as lasting glory as his Sword did yield;
And he intit'led to as fair renown,
By Wreaths of Bay, as Judah's Crown.
Virgil the Silver Age did cause to shine.
The Iron Age Cleveland and Cowley had;
Both of them, alas, are dead!
And with 'em too, I fear, their heat divine!
But stay! some comfort yet does come,
We have good Poets store, as—faith I know not whom;
But this Pindarick rapture has convey'd
Me from my first intent,
I had some faint Idæas made,
How I might Nature represent.
To her I would a glorious Substance give,
Compos'd of Body and of Soul.
She does a mighty Sovereign live,
Ruling from this, to th' other Pole.
What is her Body, Muse, then say?
'Tis Beauty, that bright Ray;
The Copy of a Summers shining Day,
Just when Aurora meets the Sun.
And yet the fair Original by th' Copy is out-done.

When She's so drest
She's fine,
As when a glittering Vest
Adorns an Angel; when the Silver Light
Peeps through the azure Tinsel, that does line
The shining Robe, and makes it heav'nly bright.
Her rosie blushes shine
Quite through the Lilly skin:
As shooting Flame through burnt White-Wine:
The outward Stuff's so thin,
The Scarlet lining all appears within.
Her bright and piercing eye
Can by no Clouds be hid;
But quite shines through the Lid:
As Sun-beams thorough Chrystal fly.
Nay, hers excell; their light does stay,
And knows no West, no setting Sun;
Here's almost everlasting day,
As at the Poles, where Night is seldome known.

If we such rare attractions owe
To Nature's Body; then (without controul)
We must far greater know,
When we're acquainted with her Soul.
Then, Muse, 'tis very fit,
Thou tell'st us it.
It is that pow'rful pleasant thing call'd Wit.
Wit is the Soul of Nature! but what more
In troth I cannot tell.
But I will shew where it does dwell;
And you can ask no more.
Some starve it out; and so unfortunate am I!
Some starve it too with Luxury;
Some seek to murder it in Rhyme;
And some with Clinches torture it to death;
Some others guilty of the Hangman's crime,
With strong Lines stop its breath.
Then sometimes it does stay
With those who plenty know;
But they soon weary grow,
And it is turn'd away,
On all accounts as well content as they.
It sometimes for its habitation payes,
As when our Poets Mony get for Plaies;
Before 'twas never heard
That they did seek reward,
Unless it was a Crown of Bayes.
For if Mecænas would some favours give;
They, in requital made Mecænas live.
But great ones are our Rivals grown
In these ill-humour'd days,
As though they had suspition,
To live in no Verse but their own;
Like Nero, now they fiddle too for praise.

But where's this place of Wit?
For I before did promise it.
After the strict re-searches I have made,
I fear'd that it above was fled,
After Astræa, that fair heav'nly Maid.
'Till Friday last I gain'd a view;
And after much cold hunting too;
I did recover my last Game, and found it, Sir, in you.