University of Virginia Library

MOCK ENCOMIUMS

To the Honourable EDWARD HOWARD, Esq; Upon his incomparable POEM of the BRITISH PRINCES

SIR,

You've obliged the British Nation more
Than all their Bards could ever do before,
And at your own Charge, Monuments more hard
Than Brass, or Marble, to their Fame have rear'd:
For as all warlike Nations take delight
To hear how brave their Ancestors could fight,
You have advanc'd to wonder their Renown,
And no less virtuously improv'd your own.
For 'twill be doubted, whether you do write,
Or they have acted at a nobler hight.
You of their ancient Princes have retriev'd
More than the Ages knew, in which they liv'd;
Describ'd their Customs, and their Rites anew,
Better than all their Druids ever knew:
Unriddled their dark Oracles, as well,
As those themselves, that made them, could foretell.
For as the Britons long have hop'd in vain,
Arthur would come to govern them again;
You have fulfill'd that Prophecy alone,
And in this Poem plac'd him on his Throne.
Such magic Pow'r has your prodigious Pen,
To raise the Dead, and give new Life to Men.
Make rival Princes meet in Arms, and Love,
Whom distant Ages did so far remove:
For as Eternity has neither past,
Nor future, (Authors say) nor first, nor last,
But is all instant; your eternal Muse
All Ages can to any one reduce.
Then why should you, whose Miracle of Art
Can Life at Pleasure to the Dead impart,
Trouble in vain your better busied Head
T' observe what Time they liv'd in, or were dead?
For since you have such arbitrary Power,
It were defect in Judgment to go lower,
Or stoop to Things so pitifully lewd,
As use to take the vulgar Latitude.
There's no Man fit to read what you have writ,
That holds not some Proportion with your Wit:
As Light can no Way but by Light appear,
He must bring Sense, that understands it here.

A PALINODIE To the Honourable EDWARD HOWARD, Esq; Upon his incomparable BRITISH PRINCES

It is your Pardon, Sir, for which my Muse
Thrice humbly thus, in form of Paper, sues;
For having felt the dead Weight of your Wit,
She comes to ask Forgiveness, and submit,
Is sorry for her Faults, and, while I write,
Mourns in the Black, does Penance in the White:
But such is her Belief in your just Candor,
She hopes you will not so misunderstand her,
To wrest her harmless Meaning to the Sense
Of silly Emulation, or Offence.
No; your sufficient Wit does still declare
Itself too amply, they are mad that dare
So vain and senseless a Presumption own,
To yoak your vast Parts in comparison.
And yet, you might have thought upon a Way
T' instruct us, how you'd have us to obey,
And not command our Praises, and then blame
All that's too great, or little for your Fame.
For who could choose but err, without some Trick
To take your Elevation to a Nick?
As he, that was desir'd, upon occasion,
To make the Mayor of London an Oration,
Desir'd his Lordship's Favour, that he might
Take Measure of his Mouth, to fit it right;
So, had you sent a Scantling of your Wit,
You might have blam'd us, if it did not fit;
But 'tis not just t' impose, and then cry down
All that's unequal to your huge Renown;
For he, that writes below your vast Desert,
Betrays his own, and not your Want of Art.
Praise, like a Robe of State, should not fit close
To th' Person 'tis made for, but wide and loose,
Derives its Comeliness from being unfit,
And such have been our Praises of your Wit,
Which is so extraordinary, no Height
Of Fancy but your own can do it right;
Witness those glorious Poems you have writ
With equal Judgment, Learning, Art, and Wit,
And those stupendious Discoveries,
You've lately made of Wonders in the Skies.
For who but from yourself did ever hear,
The Sphere of Atoms was the Atmosphere?
Who ever shut those Straglers in a Room,
Or put a Circle about Vacuum,
What should confine those undetermin'd Crowds,
And yet extend no further than the Clouds?
Who ever could have thought, but you alone,
A Sign, and an Ascendant were all one?
Or how 'tis possible the Moon should shrowd
Her Face, to peep at Mars, behind a Cloud;
Since Clouds below are so far distant plac'd,
They cannot hinder her from being barefac'd?
Who ever did a Language so enrich,
To scorn all little Particles of Speech?
For though they make the Sense clear, yet th' are found
To be a scurvy Hindrance to the Sound;
Therefore you wisely scorn your Stile to humble,
Or for the Sense's Sake to wave the Rumble,
Had Homer known this Art, h' had ne'er been fain
To use so many Particles in vain,
That to no Purpose serve, but (as he hap's
To want a Syllable) to fill up Gaps.
You justly coin new Verbs to pay for those,
Which in Construction you o'ersee, and lose:
And by this Art do Priscian no Wrong
When you break 's Head, for 'tis as broad as long.
These are your own Discoveries, which none
But such a Muse as yours could hit upon,
That can in spight of Laws of Art, or Rules
Make Things more intricate than all the Schools
For what have Laws of Art to do with you,
More than the Laws with honest Men and true?
He that's a Prince in Poetry should strive
To cry 'em down, by his Prerogative,
And not submit to that, which has no Force
But o'er Delinquents, and Inferiors.
Your Poems will indure to be try'd
I' th' Fire like Gold, and come forth purify'd,
Can only to Eternity pretend,
For they were never writ to any End.
All other Books bear an uncertain Rate,
But those you write are always sold by Weight,
Each Word and Syllable brought to the Scale,
And valu'd to a Scruple in the Sale.
For, when the Paper's charg'd with your rich Wit,
'Tis for all Purposes and Uses fit,
Has an abstersive Virtue to make clean
Whatever Nature made in Man obscene.
Boys find b' Experiment, no Paper-kite,
Without your Verse, can make a noble Flight.
It keeps our Spice, and Aromatics sweet;
In Paris they perfume their Rooms with it;
For burning but one Leaf of yours, they say,
Drives all their Stinks and Nastiness away.
Cooks keep their Pyes from burning with your Wit,
Their Pigs and Geese from scorching on the Spit:
And Vintners find their Wines are ne'er the worse,
When Ars'nick's only wrap'd up in the Verse.
These are the great Performances, that raise
Your mighty Parts above all reach of Praise,
And give us only Leave t' admire your Worth,
For no Man, but yourself, can set it forth,
Whose wond'rous Pow'r's so generally known,
Fame is the Echo, and her Voice your own.

A PANEGYRIC UPON Sir JOHN DENHAM'S Recovery from his Madness