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

Mistake not Reader, 't is not here we come
To beg the mercy of thy milder doom:
Nor thus amasse our Vote to counterpoise
The juster censure, with the louder noise:
Or court your breath, to swell our Authors Name,
With the slight Almes of a petition'd Fame.

Put all your censure on, such as might blast
The vizage of a Zealot at a Fast;
Be it as deadly as a Judge's dream,
That murthers in his sleep; could one quick Beam
Shot from your Eye, out-do the Lightnings Rayes,
And what that cannot, wither the fresh Bayes:
Yet might he scorn your rage, and boldly stand
The fury and the tempest of your hand.
Look on him well and fully, till your sight
Dazled with Lustre, do confess his light:
See how he casts a Man-like heat, a fire
Not lost in sparkes, but in one stream intire:
A gentle friendly flame, like that which shed
His Rayes on th' new-born Roman Princes head.
Without restraint or fetters, fully free,
Great in his rapture, high in Extasie:

Yet standing in his Master's reach and Power,
A Muse subjected to command and Lure:
A Judg'd and Aym'd at Wit, a knowing glance,
The happiness o'th' Brain, and not of Chance.

No sullen night-cap Vein, which must confine
It self to th' tedious Hour-glass, or the Wine;
One that is forc'd by Siedge, and is distrest
Unto the sad surrender of a Jest;
Nor yet a Head of Humour, or of Fit,
A Magazeen, or Polyanthea Wit.

But pardon me Blest Soul, whilst I invade
Thy Name, and mix thy glories thus with shade:
Dwarfing thy Stature whilst that I compute
Thy grown Colossus by a Pygmy's foot.

And if we yet are short, how shall we than
That cannot speak the Poet, praise the Man?
Paint in what figure, colour, or design,
The deep Philosopher or grave Divine?
Express him when he held us forth his light,
Unridling to us the dark Stagyrite?
Whose stubborn knots retain'd their strength, though spred
And moulded in a soft and even thread;
Where Language he to Sense did reconcile,
Reducing Reason unto square and file.

Or view him when his riper thoughts did bear
His studies into a Diviner Sphere:
When that his Voice and Charm th' attentive Throng,
And every Ear was link'd unto his Tongue.
The numerous preass, closing their souls in one,
Stood all transform'd into his Passion.

Now would my verse Triumph, and does prepare
To feather her dull Wing, with fire, and Air:
Impregnated with strong Magnetick force,
To follow him in his Seraphick course.

But I forbear this Theme, deni'd to men
Of common souls, of lay and secular Pen:
It is enough if our unhallow'd Laies
Stand at the Gate, and Threshold of his Praise.

Go forth then Sacred Poet, and Reclaime
Thy art to th' old Religion of its Name:
Possess thy many Glories, for to thee
Belongs a multiplied Eternity:
A full and wealthy share, enough to give
An Age its Breath, which ('cause 'twas thine) shall live.
Declining Poesie from thy Times will write
The Noon, and Epoch of her proudest Height.

Io. Fell. a m. oxon.