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

Forgive us His dear shade, that we can write
A Funerall verse, and own a grief so light:
'Tis all seven years could do, but thus to break
Our stubborn passion, and make Sorrow speak,
Struck dumb till now. Methinks our Tears would fain
Cement his Dust, and Sighs give Breath again:
Whilst such a Fate we weep, as for some less
Old Stoicks broke, and durst no more Profess.

We mourn not now the Peoples way, as though
Our Elegies did out of Season grow
In some past Twelve-months, or His memory
Could with Black cloaths and Cypress be laid by:
Hee's still New loss to Us; Meaner things may
Perish at once, Cartwright dies every day.

Now help us all ye Powers of Verse, and flow
Into his Praise all that Himself could do;
For who can write without Him? who durst try
To speak His worth, were not His Book so nigh?
Where, if our flame do languish we retire
To his great Genius, and thence take new fire.
No Myst'ry there blocks up the way, no sowre
Nor rugged Verse that must be scann'd twice o'r;
But his soft Numbers gently slide away,
Like Chrystall waters, Smooth, and Deep, as they.

Euterpe was his Muse, Ease and Delight
Lead us along; we Read as He did Write,
Each Poem thus is Play, which yet you'l find
To be the rich o'rflowings of a mind
Furnish'd with Arts and Authors; what he writ,
Was but much-Learning Blossom'd forth in Wit;
Which struggled still for Birth, as when Jove's brain
With Pallas swell'd, not to bring forth was pain.

His stile so pleases the judicious Gown,
As that there's something too for Wits o'th' Town:
Rough handed Criticks do approve, and yet
'Tis treasure for the Ladies Cabinet.
The sturdy Schooleman that spends all his daies
On Cobweb-notions drest in barbarous phrase,
Charm'd with his Quill forthwith becomes less fierce,
And Hercules-like ventures to spin in Verse.
They who (worse than ten Inquisitions) do
Forbid not only Books, but Learning too,
By some strange vertue which these Lines infuse,
Submit their Spirit to his powerfull Muse;
Which thus, like Manna, to all tasts being fit,
Whilst others Love, ev'n They will Pardon it.

How may we then admire His serious time,
That wrote so well, yet drove no Trade in Rime!
If from the Scene and Walks such praise he share,
What must he from his Metaphysick chair?
There he unriddled that mysterious Book,

εκδεδομεθα κοι μη εκδεδομεθα plut. in Alex.

Which Aristotle made to be mistook;
And his deep sense did so exactly tell,
Great Alexander knew't not half so well:
So were those Oracles utter'd clear and good,
Which rude Interpreters make less understood.

But who could hear without an Extasie,
When with a gracefull conquering presence He
Stood forth, and, like Almighty Thunder, flung
His numerous strains amongst th' amazed throng?

A pleasing horror strook through every limb,
And every Ear was close chain'd up to Him:
Such Masculine vigour ravish'd our assent;
What He Perswaded, was Commandement:
A sweeter plenty Rhetorick ne'r knew
In Chysostome's Pulpit, nor in Tully's Pew.

'Tis yet our comfort, though his Solid parts,
The best Divinity and depth of Arts
Still buried lye, that now his sprightly Verse
Breakes forth, and springs like flowers on his cold Herse.
Thus shall he live, and every Line shall have
As great applause, as once his Royall Slave:
He shall be read as Canon, to express
What's Fit and Best in every shape and dress.
Whilst all that after come can hope but this,
Only to learn how much they write amiss.

Ralph Bathurst. Trin. Col. Oxon.