 | The Rebellion |  |
To his deare friend, Mr. Thomas Rawlins.
To see a Springot of thy tender age,With such a lofty straine to word a Stage;
To see a Tragedy from thee in print,
With such a world of fine Meanders in't,
Pusles my wondring soule: for there appeares
Such disproportion twixt thy Lines and Yeares.
The sweet tongu'd Ovid fall upon his knee,
With (Parce precor) every line, and word,
Runnes in sweet numbers of its owne accord:
But I am wonder-strook, that all this while
Thy unfeather'd qui'll should write a Tragicke stile.
This above all my admiration drawes,
That one so young should know Dramatticke Lawes.
'Tis rare, and therefore is not for the span,
Or greasie thumbes of every common man.
The Damaske Rose that sprouts before the Spring
Js fit for none to smell at, but a King.
Goe on sweet friend, I hope in time to see
Thy Temples rounded with the Daphnean Tree.
And if men aske who nurst thee, Ile say thus,
Jt was the Ambrosian Spring of Pegasus.
Rob. Chamberlain.
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