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The Lady-Errant

A Tragi-Comedy
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
On Mr Cartvvright's Incomparable Poems published after his Death.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

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On Mr Cartvvright's Incomparable Poems published after his Death.

Let Times grow ne'r so bad, that none can thrive,
When most men break, Poets we see can live;
And their unbridled Muse securely run
Undaunted through the rage of Tax or Gun:
Thus midd'st the wither'd Trees 'tis alwayes seen
In Winter-time the Laurell holds up green:
Verse made Apollo's self so often told
For Youth and Wisdome, and yet never old:
'Mongst all the Helps of Art and Natures care,
'Tis the true Poet only makes you Faire;
Nay, I have heard some say, ('tis none of mine)
No Verse no Text, no Poet no Divine;
As if a meer bare Sermon nothing claimes
Unless 'tis usher'd in betwixt two Psalms.
A comely madnes sits upon the brow
Of a well-temper'd Poet; Madness now
In other men is Sin, Disease, but here
It graces, not infects the Part that's clear.
Then let's embrace what Cartwright does bequeath,
But he's not dead, for here we see him breath:
Or if we grant him gone, he's only ta'ne
To set a Spoak i'th' Wheel of Charles his VVayn.
Geo: Hill.