The Lady-Errant A Tragi-Comedy |
To the rich Memory of my Honoured Friend the Learned Author.
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 | The Lady-Errant |  |
To the rich Memory of my Honoured Friend the Learned Author.
Sleep
in thy Urn, what makes the modest pant,
For fear they want:
And what the bold
Presume they do, but do not hold;
Wit which like Geography
Takes Bounds and Limit from the Eye
Which waites on its Discovery.
For some have gone
Up to the Torrid and the Frozen Zone,
But there expire
By too much Frost, or too much Fire.
Some Phansies flee
Like those imbark'd with Ptolomy
Who neer the Tropicks Land, and there
Or their own Skill, or Tempests fear,
And leave the rest to some Columbus-care.
Where Wit moves far, but finds the Voyage hard,
Something still 'scapes the secret of their Card;
But to thy Grasping Comprehensive Brain,
Each stream was Main,
No winding Mystery thy view withstands,
No Art, no Science is thy unknown Lands,
What e'r doth rowle
'Twixt Natures either Pole,
Within thy search doth all
A Temperate Habitable Science fall.
For fear they want:
And what the bold
Presume they do, but do not hold;
Wit which like Geography
Takes Bounds and Limit from the Eye
Which waites on its Discovery.
For some have gone
Up to the Torrid and the Frozen Zone,
But there expire
By too much Frost, or too much Fire.
Some Phansies flee
Like those imbark'd with Ptolomy
Who neer the Tropicks Land, and there
Or their own Skill, or Tempests fear,
And leave the rest to some Columbus-care.
Where Wit moves far, but finds the Voyage hard,
Something still 'scapes the secret of their Card;
But to thy Grasping Comprehensive Brain,
Each stream was Main,
No winding Mystery thy view withstands,
No Art, no Science is thy unknown Lands,
What e'r doth rowle
'Twixt Natures either Pole,
Within thy search doth all
A Temperate Habitable Science fall.
Nor do these knowing thoughts unfashion'd pass,
In a rude Mass,
For want of Fire:
Thy Learned Issues to inspire;
Nor yet Precipitated come,
The swift Abortives of a Womb
Ripe for no Midwife but the Tomb,
Wit without shape,
(As Prisoners) is not born, but doth Escape.
And as most things
Spring cloath'd from provident Nature's Wings,
And at once do
Put Limbs on and Apparrell too;
As the same Womb without Demurs
Breeds Ermins, and with them their Furs:
So thou despising Wracks, and Second Spurs,
At once dost both Enliven, and Adorne,
And thy Fair Thoughts are with their Wardrobe borne;
And yet no Rape on disproportion'd Words
Thy Brain affords:
Nor yet a cold indifferency to hit
On all which doth come First, though not come Fit.
Our Thought allows
Of Language for her Spouse:
A Bride which seldome suites,
When forc'd as Coy, or Free as Prostitutes.
In a rude Mass,
For want of Fire:
Thy Learned Issues to inspire;
The swift Abortives of a Womb
Ripe for no Midwife but the Tomb,
Wit without shape,
(As Prisoners) is not born, but doth Escape.
And as most things
Spring cloath'd from provident Nature's Wings,
And at once do
Put Limbs on and Apparrell too;
As the same Womb without Demurs
Breeds Ermins, and with them their Furs:
So thou despising Wracks, and Second Spurs,
At once dost both Enliven, and Adorne,
And thy Fair Thoughts are with their Wardrobe borne;
And yet no Rape on disproportion'd Words
Thy Brain affords:
Nor yet a cold indifferency to hit
On all which doth come First, though not come Fit.
Our Thought allows
Of Language for her Spouse:
A Bride which seldome suites,
When forc'd as Coy, or Free as Prostitutes.
Hence both thy Lyrick and Dramatick Quill,
Bath'd in one Still,
Breath Soft and Clean,
Or in thy Ode, or Comick Scene.
Where clear Designes in ambush laid,
In just suspense 'twixt Light and Shade,
Nor out of Sight, nor are Betrayd.
Heap'd plots go wrong,
Good Company consists not in a Throng.
Then comes a Sight,
Which may Amuze, but not Afright,
Thou didst not Rage,
Like a Mortality upon thy Stage:
As those whose Buskin treads so hard,
That each their bloudy Scenes discard,
Enough to cloy St Innocents Church-yard.
'Tis an Invasion this like his who slew
A living Man to draw a Picture true.
Then: thou each part severely didst confine,
To 'ts first designe,
For where mistaken Characters intrude,
Each single Actor is a Multitude:
'Tis like his Doom
Whose throne turn'd Musick-Room,
And was though crown'd heard say,
Give us the Fiddle, we our self will Play.
Bath'd in one Still,
Breath Soft and Clean,
Or in thy Ode, or Comick Scene.
Where clear Designes in ambush laid,
In just suspense 'twixt Light and Shade,
Nor out of Sight, nor are Betrayd.
Heap'd plots go wrong,
Good Company consists not in a Throng.
Then comes a Sight,
Which may Amuze, but not Afright,
Thou didst not Rage,
Like a Mortality upon thy Stage:
That each their bloudy Scenes discard,
Enough to cloy St Innocents Church-yard.
'Tis an Invasion this like his who slew
A living Man to draw a Picture true.
Then: thou each part severely didst confine,
To 'ts first designe,
For where mistaken Characters intrude,
Each single Actor is a Multitude:
'Tis like his Doom
Whose throne turn'd Musick-Room,
And was though crown'd heard say,
Give us the Fiddle, we our self will Play.
M. Lluellin.
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