The Lady-Errant A Tragi-Comedy |
To the Memory of Mr William Cartvvright,
On the publication of these His Incomparable Poems
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 | The Lady-Errant |  |
To the Memory of Mr William Cartvvright, On the publication of these His Incomparable Poems
How
, in this dearth of Wit, could we dispence
With that, and scarce presume to covet sense!
Till our Green-sickness-appetite, inur'd
To Offalls, from thy Brain was fed, and cur'd;
And husbanding thy Royall Slave would dine
Like men two years beleaguer'd, on one line:
Till this Collation taught us riot, we
Could feast on two, and surfeited on three;
Nor could that heat be found, that might digest
So little, in less time than all was dress'd.
Now our rash Palate at one meal tasts o're
All thy first Viands, and waites new, and more;
Which is return'd so amply pleas'd by this,
The largess hath out-vy'd our avarice.
With that, and scarce presume to covet sense!
Till our Green-sickness-appetite, inur'd
To Offalls, from thy Brain was fed, and cur'd;
And husbanding thy Royall Slave would dine
Like men two years beleaguer'd, on one line:
Till this Collation taught us riot, we
Could feast on two, and surfeited on three;
Nor could that heat be found, that might digest
So little, in less time than all was dress'd.
Now our rash Palate at one meal tasts o're
All thy first Viands, and waites new, and more;
Which is return'd so amply pleas'd by this,
The largess hath out-vy'd our avarice.
How had we lost both Mint, and Coyn too, were
That salvage love still fashionable here,
To sacrifice upon the Funerall Wood
All, the deceas'd had e'r held deer and good!
We would bring all our speed, to ransome thine
With Don's rich Gold, and Johnson's silver Mine;
Then to the pile add all that Fletcher writ,
Stamp'd by thy Character a currant Wit:
Suckling's Ore, with Sherley's small mony, by
Heywoods old Iron, and Shakespear's Alchemy.
That salvage love still fashionable here,
To sacrifice upon the Funerall Wood
All, the deceas'd had e'r held deer and good!
We would bring all our speed, to ransome thine
With Don's rich Gold, and Johnson's silver Mine;
Then to the pile add all that Fletcher writ,
Stamp'd by thy Character a currant Wit:
Suckling's Ore, with Sherley's small mony, by
Heywoods old Iron, and Shakespear's Alchemy.
Yet though thy modesty would ne'r submit
To antiquate a custome so unfit,
Some kinder hand, would not thy Bayes should be
A prey to mean fires, that was lightning free
Since Daphne, though un-sun-burnt from that shape,
Had but chang'd ravishers, not shunn'd the Rape.
But we enjoy more than thou wouldst bequeath,
Those scatter'd leaves united in this wreath;
Where we may read deep Judgement well express'd,
Matter strong limb'd, well ayr'd, and richly dress'd.
No rude unchaste Errataes that may set
A deeper paleness on thy ashes yet,
Thy salt foments no itch where e'r it hit;
The Priest may own all that the Poet writ:
Words here not press'd, serve at their own expence,
No Language rack'd, till it confess thy sence;
Which is throughout so genuine, and good,
All it can beg, is, to be understood.
To antiquate a custome so unfit,
Some kinder hand, would not thy Bayes should be
A prey to mean fires, that was lightning free
Since Daphne, though un-sun-burnt from that shape,
Had but chang'd ravishers, not shunn'd the Rape.
But we enjoy more than thou wouldst bequeath,
Those scatter'd leaves united in this wreath;
Where we may read deep Judgement well express'd,
Matter strong limb'd, well ayr'd, and richly dress'd.
No rude unchaste Errataes that may set
A deeper paleness on thy ashes yet,
Thy salt foments no itch where e'r it hit;
The Priest may own all that the Poet writ:
Words here not press'd, serve at their own expence,
No Language rack'd, till it confess thy sence;
Which is throughout so genuine, and good,
All it can beg, is, to be understood.
Wil. Bell.
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