University of Virginia Library

Upon Mr Cartvvright's Poems.

Clear up Thalia, wipe thine eyes, and sing
Thy Patrons Resurrection, Come and bring
The geniall pack of Sisters hither, now
Wee'l all rejoyce, and thank the Fates, that thou
Brave Cartvvright art reviv'd: sure death resents
Thy Case, she takes 't to heart, and now repents
Sh' has cut thy thread: the debt she owes to thee
Shee'l pay thy Book to wit) Æternity.
Methinks I hear thee breath againe, 'tis here
Thou liv'st and mov'st as in thy proper Sphere,
What all this while alive, and ne'r come forth
Nor walk abroad till now? 'tis fit thy Worth
Should be made known to all and not supprest,
Nor kept in some close Cabinet or Chest,
Where none but Worms can enter, who will feed
And live upon thy Wit, though they cann't read.
But O take heed ye worms of Cartvvright's Wit,
His Lines are strong, you may a surfeit get;
You must forbear who can tast nought but Ink,
And never deeper than the Paper sink;
Your shallow senslesse Teeth must never look
To rellish so profound and wise a Book
As Cartvvright's is, No meaguer Poet, here
You'l find no Drolery, th' effect of Beer
And Ale, such stuff the Poet after vents
Half drunk, when he speaks nought but Complements,
Who racks his Brain, and spends his Wit, and Time,
In seeking not so much for Sense, as Rime.
Thy Works are full of Life, not like the vain
And foolish Embryoes of a giddy brain,
That perish in the first Conception
Like an unhappy and abortive Son:
Who's born a Carkase, and who always dyes
Before he lives, comes forth a Corse, and lyes
Cradl'd in a Coffin: such sons of Death,
Some hasty Wits, when they are out of breath
Produce—Thus when the Poet's drunk and reels
His Verses in the Birth kick up their heels,
They're maim'd within, and crippl'd in the Womb:
Come forth all Scazons, halting up and down,
Such limping Poetry doe some beget,
That staggers ev'ry step for want of Wit.
Each Page is here a Volume; Cartvvright's Pen
Speaks in one dash more than whole Books of Men.