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The Lady-Errant

A Tragi-Comedy
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
On M. Will: Cartwrights Incomparable Poems.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

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On M. Will: Cartwrights Incomparable Poems.

In the great Crowd whose hands are fill'd with Bayes,
To adde unto the Noise, not to thy Praise,
I humbly press to bring
My Offering:
And though thy Worth for the best Wits doth call,
Yet none gives more than he that doth give All;
Which to the World may show
How much I owe;
For I can Wish, Admire, and dare profess
Though some say more, I did not VVonder less.
'Tis a hard Task exactly to rehearse
Whether thou couldst doe more in Prose or Verse;
Thy Words untun'd were sweeter
Than Other's Meeter;
For as thy Verse had Pleasure, Strength, and Sense,
So thy Discourse had Depth and Eloquence:
This pleas'd the Wise, the Young
Ador'd thy Song;
Both had attain'd their Height, for These and Those,
Thy Verse was the best Verse, thy Prose best Prose.
But he that speaks the honour of thy Muse,
Must say 'twas such as Lavves himself did chuse,
Whose all-performing Soul
Intire and whole
Follow'd thy flowing Language up to th' Brim:
As he were born for Thee, and Thou for Him:
The Musick of thy Wit,
Thus tun'd and hit,
Will make thy precious Name advance and spread
As far, as long, as men can sing or read.
J: Cobbe.