The Lady-Errant :: :: University of Virginia Library

As when the Sun doth in full luster rise,
The lesser Stars straight vanish from tho Skies,
And shrink their wandring Heads into a Night,
Made and drawn o'r them by a greater Light:
So when thy Book, Ingenuous Soul, is read,
Like a bright flame recover'd from the dead,
All the small Poets of our Twilight Times
Call in their borrowed Fires, and break in Rimes.

Poor souls, Thou hast undone them; They are fain
To their torn Black now to return again.
Their Verse no longer will their Reckonings pay,
Thin as their stuff Cloaks, and more lean than they,
Who in a meaguer sadness walk the streets,
As when a hard frost with sharp Hunger meets.

Nor do I wonder; For what e'r of old
Of great Wits born, or made so, hath been told,
Without much flatt'ry to thy Ashes we
Rare Cartvvright, may call Prophecies of Thee:
Whose Native Fancie, quick, fleet, winged, free,
Was such as Poets Fancies ought to be.
Like early Students, toyling in the dark,
Thou did'st not from a cold Flint call the spark

Which was to light thy Candle; Nor did'st beat
Thy frozen Brain into Poetick Heat
Nor did thy Glass inspire Thee, nor the Wine
Go half Wit with Thee in thy drunken Line:
The Children of thy swift Soul from Thee came,
Like Theirs who were deliver'd of a Flame,
Kindled from their own Bowels; Wit in thee,
Was such as vndri'd Fountains use to be;
Which when they have whole years, and Ages run,
Hold still as much as when they first begun:
So Candles which light Candles at the Dore,
Keep all the Treasure which they lent before.

And as thy Wit was like a Spring, so all
The soft streams of it we may Chrystall call:
No cloud of Fancie, no mysterious stroke,
No Verse like those which antient Sybils spoke;
No Oracle of Language, to amaze
The Reader with a dark or Midnight phrase,
Stands in thy Writings, which are all pure Day,
A cleer, bright Sunshine, and the mist away.
That which Thou wrot'st was sense, and that sense good,
Things not first written, and then understood:
Or if sometimes thy Fancy soar'd so high
As to seem lost to the unlearned Eye,
'Twas but like generous Falcons, when high flown,
Which mount to make the Quarrey mere their own.

For thou to Nature had'st joyn'd Art, and skill
In Thee Ben Johnson still held Shakespear's Quill:
A Quill, rul'd by sharp Judgement, and such Laws,
As a well studied Mind, and Reason draws.
Thy Lamp was cherish'd with supplies of Oyle,
Fetch'd from the Romane and the Græcian soyle.
The Muses were but half thy Nurses, who
Didst to their Well joyn Aristotle's too;

Travell'dst through all his secrets, and didst run
A Course in Knowledge dayly like the Sun,
And Nightly too; For when all other Eyes
Were lock'd, and shut, but those that watch the Skies,
Thou, like Discoverers at Sea, went'st on,
To find out new Worlds, to all else unknown.
Nor would thy busie Candle let Thee sleep,
Till Thou hadst fathom'd the unfathom'd Deep.
Hence, like Quick-silver kept from wandring, We
Saw thy swift Wit fixt by Philosophy;
And in that sight saw what we still admire,
Remaining Circles writ in bounded fire.
And as rich Jewels taken as they grow
From the rude Rock, do unfil'd Treasures show,
But by the Artist's Hand polish'd, and put
Into fair figures, and in Angles cut,
Do with their darted Lightnings strike from far
The Eye, like some new many-corner'd Star:
So thy Wit, Cartvvright, with wise Studies met,
Shew'd like a Jewell in a bright Ring set;
Or like rich Medals, which besides the Grace,
Of being gold, take value from the face.

Hence twin perfections in thy Writings knit,
Present us with strange Contraries of Wit:
Strength mix'd with Sweetness Vigorous, with Fair;
Lucan's bold Heights match'd to staid Virgil's care,
Martial's quick salt, joind to Musæus Tongue,
Soft thorns of Fancie which from Roses sprung.
Thou hadst, indeed, a sharp but harmeless Wit;
Made to delight, and please, not wound, or hit:
A Wit which was all Edge, yet none did feel
Rasours in thy quick Line, in thy Verse steel;
Or if they did, only from thence did spring
A pointed Musick, sharpness without sting.

Nor was thy Wit confin'd, or made to sail
By one Wind, like theirs, who write by Retail:
Thine was no Gold or Silver-End Muse, we
All sorts of Poets did behold in Thee.
Dramatick, Lyrick, and Heroick; Thou
Knew'st when to varie Shapes, and where, and how.

Witness thy Royall Captive, where we do
Read thee a Poet, but sad Prophet too:
A Play where Vertue so well languag'd shines,
That Slaves are there made Princes by thy Lines.
Witness thy other Poems too, and Songs,
Such as turn'd Deserts heretofore to Throngs;
And tun'd to th' Musick of a Thracian string,
Made wild men tame, and Peace from Discord spring.

But these thy looser Raptures must submit
To thy rare Sermons, and much holier Wit;
In whose rich Web such Eloquence is seen,
As if the Romane Orator had been
Sent forth to preach the Gospell; And had stood
In our Assemblies powring out his floud.
Thou wert a Poet, but thy Sermons do
Shew thee to be the best of Preachers too;
Who to thy Rhet'rick did'st such skill impart,
As if Thou Heyr to some Apostle wert;
Who taking Wing for Heaven, behind him left
His fiery Tongue to Thee, and that Tongue cleft
Into as many waies to save, as They
Who are worst Sinners use to erre and stray.
What holy Craft did in thy Pulpit move?
How was the Serpent mingled with the Dove?
How have I seen Thee cast thy Net, and then
With holy Cosenage catch'd the Souls of Men?
Preach'd Sin out of their Bosoms, made them see
Both what they were, and what they ought to be?

Made them confess the strait way by Thee strow'd
With Flowers, was far more pleasant than the broad?
Indeed, we Scripture-Wonders oft did spie,
Camels by Thee drawn through a Needle's Eye.

Thou wert not like our New-light men, who still
Their frantick Censers with wild Incense fill:
And holding forth their Shopboard Revelations,
Turn into Bedlam's frighted Congregation.

Nor like our Prester Johns, whom people hear
Twice every Lords day, yet but once a year:
Whose Sermons, like the Sands of the dry Glass
By which they teach, turn'd, for new Sermons pass.
Or as some thrifty Brother, neer half broke,
Makes him new Breeches of his aged Cloke
No, Thou wert one upon whose lips did dwell
A Coal, like that, which from Gods Altar fell.
No twice repeated Non-sense from Thee came:
No Acorn trash, and that Trash still the same.
Thou to all Hearers wert all Things, didst fly
Low to the People, to us Scholars high;
Hadst Milk for Children, and strong Meat for those,
Whose Minds, like thine, to Mens perfections rose.

Much more I should say of Thee, if that Heat
Which wrought in thine, did in my Fancy beat.
But as a Beautious Face, or sparkling Eye,
Doubles its Grace if one deform'd stand by;
So my rude Verse bound up with thine, may add
Some Commendation to Thee by being bad;
And I perhaps, by some be thought to praise
Thy Book by bringing my half wither'd Bayes.

The Wildeness of the Place in which I dwell,
The Desert of my unfrequented Cell,
My want of quick Recruits made from the Citty,
And Times which make it Treason to be witty,

Times where Great Parts do walk abroad by stealth,
And Great Wits live in Plato's Common-wealth,
Have made me dull: my Friends with some remorse
See me, who wrote ill alwaies, now write worse.
The little fire which once I had is lost,
I write, as all my Neighbours speak, in frost.
Or if ought be well said here, I confess
Thou hast inspir'd the matter and the Dress.
As when Elias dropt his Mantle, He
Who took it up began to Prophesie.

Jasper Mayne.