 | The Lady-Errant |  |
On Mr William Cartvvright's surviving Poems.
Phæbus, 'tis time, lay by thine own Leaves now,
Shade thy gilt Locks with a sad Cypress Bough:
Thy prais'd mourn'd Heir is dead; no Muse, not one
Can call him back to Life, unless his own.
He who could teach the Sisters how to sing,
And thee, Apollo, thy soft Lyre to string,
He whose harmonious Soule (since some there be,
For want of Ayre, deny Spheres Melody)
Hath bid those very Spheres, though they lack sound,
Unto his Pipe to dance their silent Round;
Our and Thy Wonder, He whose name alone
Heightned Parnassus, 'tis He, Cartvvright's gone.
Yet when thou seest (after his own breast's Doom)
His Phœnix-Verse spring from his spicy Tomb,
And think'st that the whole Species is not worn
Quite out, because himself is thus re-born;
Yet, yet forbear thy Lawrell; Wrap thy Head
Still in the Cypress Arbour, for He's dead:
Slip down to Saturne; what Jove's power did do
His Worth will act here, and depose thee too.
And though we now, after his Death, dare write,
Prometheus-like we steal from Heav'n our Light,
That is, from Him; When Thy self sett'st (and He
By very loss of Time's more God than thee)
The petty Stars appear, and shine, yet all
Their Lustre is bequeath'd but from thy fall;
If any Verse (his hand congeal'd) may pass,
'Tis but his own seen fainter in a Glass;
A dead and cold, like and more unlike, shade;
Such as by Thee at Thetis call was made.
Shade thy gilt Locks with a sad Cypress Bough:
Thy prais'd mourn'd Heir is dead; no Muse, not one
Can call him back to Life, unless his own.
He who could teach the Sisters how to sing,
And thee, Apollo, thy soft Lyre to string,
He whose harmonious Soule (since some there be,
For want of Ayre, deny Spheres Melody)
Hath bid those very Spheres, though they lack sound,
Unto his Pipe to dance their silent Round;
Our and Thy Wonder, He whose name alone
Heightned Parnassus, 'tis He, Cartvvright's gone.
Yet when thou seest (after his own breast's Doom)
His Phœnix-Verse spring from his spicy Tomb,
And think'st that the whole Species is not worn
Quite out, because himself is thus re-born;
Yet, yet forbear thy Lawrell; Wrap thy Head
Still in the Cypress Arbour, for He's dead:
Slip down to Saturne; what Jove's power did do
His Worth will act here, and depose thee too.
And though we now, after his Death, dare write,
Prometheus-like we steal from Heav'n our Light,
That is, from Him; When Thy self sett'st (and He
By very loss of Time's more God than thee)
The petty Stars appear, and shine, yet all
Their Lustre is bequeath'd but from thy fall;
If any Verse (his hand congeal'd) may pass,
'Tis but his own seen fainter in a Glass;
Such as by Thee at Thetis call was made.
And thou, great Prince of Numbers, (like some Lord
Fear'd for his Power, and for his Parts ador'd)
Wert too great for Applause, a full Delight
To th' taken Eare, but Envy to the Sight!
How did the factious London-Wits first praise,
And then with slanderous But maligne thy Bayes!
How they arraign'd thy skill in Comædy,
And before Plutarch su'd thy Play and Thee!
Sir, may This pass upon the Stage? may That?
May Ghosts speak, Sir, or else I pray' say what?
(So hardly could they speak, as if Ghosts grown
Themselves, and turn'd into the Question:)
Nay but, good Sir, Plutarch himselfe saies Nay,
In what Tongue? In our Mother Tongue, we say:
Do, pin your faith upon an English sleeve
For the Greek History; you'l not beleeve
What the first Voice and Truth it self doth speak,
But suspend all untill the Eccho break,
Or Report mocks you; how you go on score!
The Eccho tels not all, and Report more:
'Twas Greek at first, that Greek was Latin made,
That Latin French, that French to English straid:
Thus 'twixt one Plutarch there's more difference,
Than i'th' same Englishman return'd from France.
Fear'd for his Power, and for his Parts ador'd)
Wert too great for Applause, a full Delight
To th' taken Eare, but Envy to the Sight!
How did the factious London-Wits first praise,
And then with slanderous But maligne thy Bayes!
How they arraign'd thy skill in Comædy,
And before Plutarch su'd thy Play and Thee!
Sir, may This pass upon the Stage? may That?
May Ghosts speak, Sir, or else I pray' say what?
(So hardly could they speak, as if Ghosts grown
Themselves, and turn'd into the Question:)
Nay but, good Sir, Plutarch himselfe saies Nay,
In what Tongue? In our Mother Tongue, we say:
Do, pin your faith upon an English sleeve
For the Greek History; you'l not beleeve
What the first Voice and Truth it self doth speak,
But suspend all untill the Eccho break,
Or Report mocks you; how you go on score!
The Eccho tels not all, and Report more:
'Twas Greek at first, that Greek was Latin made,
That Latin French, that French to English straid:
Thus 'twixt one Plutarch there's more difference,
Than i'th' same Englishman return'd from France.
And thus thy Father Johnson (since naught can
Besides the Sun and Man, beget a Man,
Phœbus and He thy (Sire) was hiss'd at still
More with the Fools Goose-Tongue than the Goose-Quil;
Only 'cause his Theorbo did so much
Excell their Crowd, and jarring Cyttern Touch;
They quarrell his each line, and yet still so
Εμου Θανοντος Γαια scapes the Blow.
Thus (like Alcides) Tryall shew'd Thee Great,
Making thee thrive more by their adverse sweat:
Thus when they thought Antæus most cast down,
He seem'd to kiss the Earth, but graspt the Crown.
They who wrote Tumult; and not Elegy,
Did thy quick strain into a Fame defie;
Great King of Poets! who didst most of all
Rise King when throngs of small Wits sought thy Fall:
So He, whose Rayes thou didst transcribe, the Sun
Suffers Eclipse to be more gaz'd upon.
Besides the Sun and Man, beget a Man,
Phœbus and He thy (Sire) was hiss'd at still
More with the Fools Goose-Tongue than the Goose-Quil;
Only 'cause his Theorbo did so much
Excell their Crowd, and jarring Cyttern Touch;
They quarrell his each line, and yet still so
Εμου Θανοντος Γαια scapes the Blow.
Thus (like Alcides) Tryall shew'd Thee Great,
Making thee thrive more by their adverse sweat:
He seem'd to kiss the Earth, but graspt the Crown.
They who wrote Tumult; and not Elegy,
Did thy quick strain into a Fame defie;
Great King of Poets! who didst most of all
Rise King when throngs of small Wits sought thy Fall:
So He, whose Rayes thou didst transcribe, the Sun
Suffers Eclipse to be more gaz'd upon.
Thy skill in Wit was not so poorely meek
As theirs whose little Latin and no Greek
Confin'd their whole Discourse to a Street-phrase,
Such Dialect as their next Neighbour's was;
Their Birth-place brought o'th' Stage, the Clown and Quean:
Were full as dear to them as Persian Scean.
Thou (to whom Ware, thus offer'd, smelt as strong
As the Clown's foot) hadst led thy Muse along
Through all learn'd Times and Authors; thy rich Pen
Travers'd more Languages than they read Men;
They but to Spain or Italy advance,
The Leg, or Shrugg, or to our Neighbour France;
Thy Universall Genius did know
The whole Worlds posture, and mixt Idiom too.
But these, as modern faculties, thy Soul
Rear'd higher up, learnt only to controul;
In abler Works and Tongues yet more refin'd,
Thou wedgd'st thy self till they grew to thy Mind;
They were so wrapt about thee, none could tell
A difference, but that Cartvvright did excell.
As theirs whose little Latin and no Greek
Confin'd their whole Discourse to a Street-phrase,
Such Dialect as their next Neighbour's was;
Their Birth-place brought o'th' Stage, the Clown and Quean:
Were full as dear to them as Persian Scean.
Thou (to whom Ware, thus offer'd, smelt as strong
As the Clown's foot) hadst led thy Muse along
Through all learn'd Times and Authors; thy rich Pen
Travers'd more Languages than they read Men;
They but to Spain or Italy advance,
The Leg, or Shrugg, or to our Neighbour France;
Thy Universall Genius did know
The whole Worlds posture, and mixt Idiom too.
But these, as modern faculties, thy Soul
Rear'd higher up, learnt only to controul;
In abler Works and Tongues yet more refin'd,
Thou wedgd'st thy self till they grew to thy Mind;
They were so wrapt about thee, none could tell
A difference, but that Cartvvright did excell.
Thy fair Converse spake thee like one of those
Ancients, who taught parts not to be morose;
So mild and affable, each man below
Thy Talk instructs, yet with an equall Brow;
Discourse draws on Discourse, there's none need fear
A Rose-tongue Preface to a Thorn i'th' Eare;
They may speak on, for thou cull'st Eloquence
From ev'ry Word, and more than they speak Sense:
So their Dialogist is still trapt on,
And eas'ly learns by Commendation:
Nor is this Complement, but Prophecy;
Thou praisest first, then mak'st them such to be:
From late Abilities Sternness frowns abroad;
'Tis safe while they themselves at home applaud.
All thy vast pain and Progress was not such
That in each Science thou might'st know so much:
As some immure Antiquity, till so
They 're cry'd up wondrous Wise, and Useless too:
Thy Arts and Knowledge did but all prælude
That thou might'st enter Orders, not intrude:
How did'st thou Pray! how Preach! how didst thou move
Thy Hands and Eyes! they and the Word our Love!
Ancients, who taught parts not to be morose;
So mild and affable, each man below
Thy Talk instructs, yet with an equall Brow;
Discourse draws on Discourse, there's none need fear
A Rose-tongue Preface to a Thorn i'th' Eare;
They may speak on, for thou cull'st Eloquence
From ev'ry Word, and more than they speak Sense:
And eas'ly learns by Commendation:
Nor is this Complement, but Prophecy;
Thou praisest first, then mak'st them such to be:
From late Abilities Sternness frowns abroad;
'Tis safe while they themselves at home applaud.
All thy vast pain and Progress was not such
That in each Science thou might'st know so much:
As some immure Antiquity, till so
They 're cry'd up wondrous Wise, and Useless too:
Thy Arts and Knowledge did but all prælude
That thou might'st enter Orders, not intrude:
How did'st thou Pray! how Preach! how didst thou move
Thy Hands and Eyes! they and the Word our Love!
These Raptures here are ours, which were before
Thy Recreations, pure and fine i'th' Ore;
Thy first Conceptions, though they did not chime,
Were perfect Verse, and only wanted Rime;
For as some said of Grotius, that his Span
Was Born past Non-age, and straight cradled Man;
So didst thou fansie Thoughts, and at the same
Strict hour of day dress them into a Frame.
As Hound and Hawk were once a Game for Lords,
So these thy Pastime; Copies, like our Words,
Sprang cheaply from thee. Then, as others, Great
Dar'd Death and danger, So our Champion met
In stout Resolves the boldest Errour, then
Slaies Knox and Bellarmine, and so's quit agen.
Thou knew'st Time could not wait, nor didst delay
To ripen Ofsprings, till the Fifteenth Day:
Thy Stream ran clear, thou never hadst intent
T' awake some abstruse Notions, only meant
To puzzle Intellects, such as they write,
Who ne'r can English what themselves indite,
But like the Times, which trouble Waters clean,
Then Catch a Frog, which will prove Stork, and raign.
Such Magisteriall Heights do never please
The vigorous Eye, but damp it with Disease.
O I am lost till some Wise man shall please
To open what is meant by ------
Such horrid Wit, we need not go to Sea,
Only read there a while, and learn to pray:
'Twas writ, not to be understood, but read,
He that expounds it must come from the Dead;
Get ------ undertake to sense it true,
For he can tell more than himself e'r knew.
Should we but write so here, it were to set
Before an Ivory Hall, a Porch of Jet,
Which sports with a gay Straw, colour'd like Gold,
The Mettall scorn'd, does on the Glimpse take hold;
Just as that Madam who threw off the meat
O'th' Peacock, as if she th' fair taile would eate.
Thy Recreations, pure and fine i'th' Ore;
Thy first Conceptions, though they did not chime,
Were perfect Verse, and only wanted Rime;
For as some said of Grotius, that his Span
Was Born past Non-age, and straight cradled Man;
So didst thou fansie Thoughts, and at the same
Strict hour of day dress them into a Frame.
As Hound and Hawk were once a Game for Lords,
So these thy Pastime; Copies, like our Words,
Sprang cheaply from thee. Then, as others, Great
Dar'd Death and danger, So our Champion met
In stout Resolves the boldest Errour, then
Slaies Knox and Bellarmine, and so's quit agen.
Thou knew'st Time could not wait, nor didst delay
To ripen Ofsprings, till the Fifteenth Day:
Thy Stream ran clear, thou never hadst intent
T' awake some abstruse Notions, only meant
To puzzle Intellects, such as they write,
Who ne'r can English what themselves indite,
But like the Times, which trouble Waters clean,
Then Catch a Frog, which will prove Stork, and raign.
The vigorous Eye, but damp it with Disease.
O I am lost till some Wise man shall please
To open what is meant by ------
Such horrid Wit, we need not go to Sea,
Only read there a while, and learn to pray:
'Twas writ, not to be understood, but read,
He that expounds it must come from the Dead;
Get ------ undertake to sense it true,
For he can tell more than himself e'r knew.
Should we but write so here, it were to set
Before an Ivory Hall, a Porch of Jet,
Which sports with a gay Straw, colour'd like Gold,
The Mettall scorn'd, does on the Glimpse take hold;
Just as that Madam who threw off the meat
O'th' Peacock, as if she th' fair taile would eate.
Verse as some say, 's the Lot of Godds; They have
No Blessings but what first the Poets gave:
Th' Abstruse ones then, serve the Ambrosia up,
And this our Ganymede fils out their Cup:
Their sullen Numbers are not fetter'd more
In Cadence now than chain'd in Sense before.
But thy soft Heliconian Dew will slip
Like Nectar down, and yet scarce touch the Lip:
For, O! how smooth all these contextures glide!
Cleane as the face of any first day's Bride!
How do they melt the Reader! then asswage!
Like holy Passions of the Primitive Age!
Thou hast writ so, that nothing else could stir
In such calm Orbs, but Thy Behaviour:
O for a new Almighty Press, that can
After the Poems, but Reprint the Man!
No Blessings but what first the Poets gave:
Th' Abstruse ones then, serve the Ambrosia up,
And this our Ganymede fils out their Cup:
Their sullen Numbers are not fetter'd more
In Cadence now than chain'd in Sense before.
But thy soft Heliconian Dew will slip
Like Nectar down, and yet scarce touch the Lip:
For, O! how smooth all these contextures glide!
Cleane as the face of any first day's Bride!
How do they melt the Reader! then asswage!
Like holy Passions of the Primitive Age!
Thou hast writ so, that nothing else could stir
In such calm Orbs, but Thy Behaviour:
O for a new Almighty Press, that can
After the Poems, but Reprint the Man!
VV. Tovvers.
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