The Lady-Errant A Tragi-Comedy |
On the Death of Mr Cartvvright,
and the Life of his desired Poems.
|
 | 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
 | The Lady-Errant |  |
On the Death of Mr Cartvvright, and the Life of his desired Poems.
No
more, Mad Heretick, no more deny
That blessed Hope which makes us glad to dye,
Dispute no more the Faith of that great Day
Shall free dead Mankind from their gloomy clay;
See here an Arg'ment will stop all your lies
And kill the putrid Gangrene—See Cartwright rise!
Great, and lov'd Cartwright! who alive could quell
All Hydra, and subdue each Limb of Hell,
Here triumphs after Fate, whose Iron strength
His springing Lawrell hath broke through at length,
And in the Resurrection of his Name
And Wit secures unto his Dust the same:
Whose every Atome shall collected rise
As sure, as these immortall Elegies.
For 'tis not more that dry bones then should grow
And live, than 'tis for Arts and Learning Now,
And buried Ashes may as eas'ly see
Theirs, as we this glad Palingenesie.
That blessed Hope which makes us glad to dye,
Dispute no more the Faith of that great Day
Shall free dead Mankind from their gloomy clay;
See here an Arg'ment will stop all your lies
And kill the putrid Gangrene—See Cartwright rise!
Great, and lov'd Cartwright! who alive could quell
All Hydra, and subdue each Limb of Hell,
Here triumphs after Fate, whose Iron strength
His springing Lawrell hath broke through at length,
And in the Resurrection of his Name
And Wit secures unto his Dust the same:
Whose every Atome shall collected rise
As sure, as these immortall Elegies.
For 'tis not more that dry bones then should grow
And live, than 'tis for Arts and Learning Now,
And buried Ashes may as eas'ly see
Theirs, as we this glad Palingenesie.
Oh! bid him welcome from his fragrant Urn,
You Sons of Phæbus, thankefull Odours burn,
And bring large Heaps of Spices, that the Flame
May spread, and shine, in which your Phænix came;
It will be prudent piety to give
Kind Rites to Him, in whom your selves will live,
And on the towring Columns of his Praise
Build your own Fame, and your own lustre raise.
You Sons of Phæbus, thankefull Odours burn,
And bring large Heaps of Spices, that the Flame
May spread, and shine, in which your Phænix came;
It will be prudent piety to give
Kind Rites to Him, in whom your selves will live,
And on the towring Columns of his Praise
Build your own Fame, and your own lustre raise.
See! He looks pale and pensive still! but This
The Scholars Grace, and chiefest Beauty is;
Allow them paint and washes for their Skin
(Those grosser Orn'ments) that have none within;
Bright Orient formes live here, though they retreat,
And for the Cheek choose a Diviner Seat;
Where they inthroned grow, and bloom as fair
As the sweet Buds which uncurst Eden bare,
And deck his Mind, and Book so, as to be
The Muses Paradise, and their Rosarie.
The Scholars Grace, and chiefest Beauty is;
Allow them paint and washes for their Skin
(Those grosser Orn'ments) that have none within;
Bright Orient formes live here, though they retreat,
And for the Cheek choose a Diviner Seat;
As the sweet Buds which uncurst Eden bare,
And deck his Mind, and Book so, as to be
The Muses Paradise, and their Rosarie.
Then, do not blame his serious Brow and Look,
'Twill be thy Picture if thou read his Book:
And every Line of noble sense drawn there
Reflects on thee no less of Grief, and Fear:
Just Grief for his vast loss; and then as much
Of Fear, no Age will boast another such.
False vacuous Births in every street we see,
But seldome, true and ripen'd, such as He;
Whose Numbers were so full, that he alone
Had been an Oxford, had we wanted one;
Which till He fell we could not; for he stood
'Mong all her Sons the Hector of her Bloud;
Sweet Diggs, and Masters, graver Aglionby,
And, their Forlorn Hope, my dear Aldersey,
Were all legitimate Branches, and her Heart
When rob'd of Them, was pierc'd with tender smart;
But when her Cartvvright went, it broak; and Men
Observe She never was Her selfe since then.
Since then She sits wasted in Sighs and Grief,
And cries her Ruins are beyond relief.
Sh'as lost her Sons, and lost their Father too,
And this Compleates, and desperates her Woe.
No Rachel, nor sad Niobe, like Her,
Who seeks and begs, yet finds no Comforter;
Nor ever shall 'tis doubted more, unless
Perhaps from this her Joseph's Coat and Dress.
This may revive, and call her up again,
Who else had vow'd no smiles to entertain,
But weep her Eyes out on the Tragick Grave
Of her best Cartvvright, and his Royall Slave.
'Twill be thy Picture if thou read his Book:
And every Line of noble sense drawn there
Reflects on thee no less of Grief, and Fear:
Just Grief for his vast loss; and then as much
Of Fear, no Age will boast another such.
False vacuous Births in every street we see,
But seldome, true and ripen'd, such as He;
Whose Numbers were so full, that he alone
Had been an Oxford, had we wanted one;
Which till He fell we could not; for he stood
'Mong all her Sons the Hector of her Bloud;
Sweet Diggs, and Masters, graver Aglionby,
And, their Forlorn Hope, my dear Aldersey,
Were all legitimate Branches, and her Heart
When rob'd of Them, was pierc'd with tender smart;
But when her Cartvvright went, it broak; and Men
Observe She never was Her selfe since then.
Since then She sits wasted in Sighs and Grief,
And cries her Ruins are beyond relief.
Sh'as lost her Sons, and lost their Father too,
And this Compleates, and desperates her Woe.
No Rachel, nor sad Niobe, like Her,
Who seeks and begs, yet finds no Comforter;
Nor ever shall 'tis doubted more, unless
Perhaps from this her Joseph's Coat and Dress.
This may revive, and call her up again,
Who else had vow'd no smiles to entertain,
But weep her Eyes out on the Tragick Grave
Of her best Cartvvright, and his Royall Slave.
Mat. Smalvvood
| The Lady-Errant | |