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The Lady-Errant

A Tragi-Comedy
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
On Mr Cartvvright's Poems Now collected and Published.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

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On Mr Cartvvright's Poems Now collected and Published.

Iust as the Mind departed rears her Frame,
Combines and Trims
Her scatter'd Limbs:
Gathers her self, and is once more the same:
Her All does Spring and Dart,
Through All, and every part:
Is in this Member All, yet no where Lame.
So does great Cartvvright's quickning Fire
Shed it self through, knit, reinspire
His Rapsodies, and owns the Bulk: His Vein,
Diffus'd alike through All, and Every strein,
In a just Volume Lives,
And the whole Cartvvright gives.
As when we view an handsome Feature nigh,
Each Members Draught
Agrees in nought
But this, that each apart does take the Eye:
And though each part that's Linkt
Is Beauteous, and Distinct,
We find a Fresh one i'th' Composure Lye.
So do I find great Cartvvright's Art
The same, and severall in each part:
His Garbs as numerous as his Poems: and
In each him Other still, still Cartvvright stand:
Each Verse gives all his Air,
And yet the whole's more Fair.


He sings: and Streight our Thoughts are his, not Ours:
What's in our Souls
His Verse Controuls;
We quit our Minds, and he Commands our Pow'rs:
He shuffles Souls with us,
And Frames us Thus or Thus:
We change our Humors, as his Muse her Flowers;
If she Laments, we're pleas'd and weep,
She's Blith, we (captive) Triumphs keep;
Shee's Grave, wee're so: If she great Princes wooe,
The Poets Lines are High and Mighty too.
His Muse flies every where,
Yet we our selves find There.
Masculine and Nervous are thy streins, (Great Soul:)
Each Thought of Thine
Makes us Divine;
And bids us Pledge o'th' Fount a full Crown'd Bowl;
Rich, Deep, yet Understood,
We Swear, not Thou, Tis Good:
Pow'rfull to take all judgments, none Controul.
Nimble Apollo gain'd the Bay,
But thou the Nymph her self away:
And all the Muses hanging on thy Lire,
Feel through their Veins now first an Humane fire,
And Alone Cartvvright will
The whole Parnassus fill.
Tho. Severne Ex æde Christi. A.M. Oxon.