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

Sad Thoughts delude me, or His Ghost groan'd thrice.
Yee load his Marble with your Elegies:
Like Pelias' Daughters, in a pious rage
To' renew his Youth yee lose his better age.
Your Zeal's prophane, your Superstition more,
That rob, or scandall whom you most adore;
(Who rifle Tombes, for Reliques shrine each Toy,)
Whom Men admire, ne'r let him grow past Boy.
Were't not to slay by Picture, to draw thus
Amidst Child-sports, Scipio and Lælius
(Their Tragick fields chang'd for their Comick Stage)
Stroking with Numbers the affrighted Age?
Mars and Fame's Trump, their Scenick pipe o're stran'd,
Their name from Terence, more, than Africk, gain'd:
But Their Great Acts made all admire their Less;
Whose Sports, like Shadows, heighten'd the whole Dress.

These Flames, to other Flames bequeath'd, his Fame
How can they raise, rais'd only by his Name?
Fate and his Praisers have like Spight betray'd,
Making his highest Sun his shortest Shade:
And should our Love, with greater Malice sin,
To end his Glories where he did begin?
This Work's the Author's Libell; but to those
Who can Proportions from the Foot disclose;
(The Foot, th' old standing Measure) thence draw Lines
To limne an Hercules, or what defines
The Course of Phæbus, Circles of the Arts,
Vertues and Sciences joyn'd for his Parts.

(As those grave Mapps, dumb Tutors, that descry
Ethicks and Arts Embody'd to the Eye)
Let each Hand sway both Globes, as in their Spheare;
That as Divine, this as Philosopher:
And, what beyond the utmost Spheare we guess,
Space and Infinity, his Thoughts express.

For Wit's the Chymick Mercury, that mix'd
With pure Allaies, with th' Arts, not dull'd, but fix'd,
(No Vinegar in Asses hoofs) serves then
More than to cure the Itch, or flux the Pen;
Work's all things unto all, unseen, and scapes
From Earth to Heav'n through gross and aery Shapes.
That Wit, that charm'd the Stage, convinc'd the School,
Did, less in Verse than Samian Numbers, rule.
Thence to the Pulpit rapt, to Paul's third Sphere,
He rapt us too: 'twas Heaven but to heare.
Phani'sies and Reason sainted, Visions grew,
And all that heard, like Saul, did proph'sy too.
All Passions lost, but what he then did shirr;
And all Opinions, but what hee'd preferr.

All this is worse than Slaunder: though a Praise,
Greater than all he lent; but what he was
To tell the World, without a Veyl t' express
What he would be — for we may not be less
Modest than Scepticks; who dare not reveal
Nature's hid Beauties; nor speak Truths, that steal
Like Rivers from their sight; nor tell the houres
Which, e'r they're told, surpass that Line. What Powr's,
What Astrolabe, Degrees and Heights can show
Of spreading Beams, Flames that by Motion grow!
How did He others more, Himself out-do!
His later Fame did still his first renew;
His thriving Parts, his Brains so kept unknit
By Verse (the Youth, not Weakness of his Wit)
That like to Numbers, Infinite, his Store
Ne'r fill'd the Sum, only enlardg'd the Score.

That Monster (Nature made and feared both,
Letting it fall without bounds to its growth,)
The Crocodile, which like Nile's streames, still growes
Bigger as't runns, and with fresh vigour flowes,
Did thus come forth, full grown in its first slime,
And still retain'd that Youth in spight of Time.
Younger with years, with Studies fresher grown,
Still in the Bud, still blooming, yet full blown.
Ambitious Souls, that climing to the height,
Enlarge their Prospect, with their Appetite,
Still towring up, till past the Point they rise;
And end their flight in a steep precipice,
Take not so endless flights, nor aime so high
As He, now only top'd by' Eternity.

O for a Pen, that could supply the Text
Of Virgil's Muse! which leaves the Reader vext,
Led on by eager heat to know the rest,
And what's unknown admiring for the Best.
Wonder and Grief be Muses! Blanks invent
For Virgils and for Cartvvright's Supplement.

But there's a Toleration now; the Hill
Levell'd to' a Plain, all bellowing Cattle fill:
What Spleen (that makes Fools witty) what Disease
(That taught the Rowt to rave Euripides,
Run mad in Verse, and in sick Raptures dye)
Hath seiz'd this Age? must we thy Musick try,
To cure, or tune their Noise? Thy Eagles Plume
May impe Fames Wing, though all the rest consume.
Thy hallow'd Birth w' invoke, to expiate
(More than all ------ Stars) the dismall Fate
Those monstrous Broods long threaten'd from the Press,
Which never labour'd more, nor brought forth less.
As the Dutch Lady, who at once did bear
Numbers, not Births, to date each day i'th' year,
Grew barren by Encrease; and after all,
None could Her, Mother, or them Children, call.

So whilst All write. None judge, we multiply
So many Poems, and no Poetry.
Verse that for Charmes may pass; more Noise than Sense,
As Northern Coyn, for Pounds cheat's us with Pence.
Something that sounds like Wit, but must be lent
More from the Reader, than the Author meant.
Wild Phant'sies chain'd in Verse; whose thicker Skull
Think judging Virgill, where he's Proper, Dull.
Thy Quill, more nimble in the Hand, than Wing,
With every Dash op'ning a fresher Spring,
Shed Words as quick as Thoughts: nor seem'd t' endite,
But to transcribe what lay before in sight:
And with that ease we read, Thou didst dispense
Wit to thy Numbers, and to Wit sure Sense.
By Thee Posterity shall string her Lyre,
Taught both to guide and to repair their Fire:
And from thy Book Readers be Poets made,
(As Silius wrote inspir'd by Maro's Shade)
Which shall, as Giants Bones, amuse the Mind
With doubt to see one grown above the Kind.
Thine, and Our Verse, as Floud-marks, stand to show
How high the Spring once ran, and now how low.

Rob: Waring.