 | Hippolitus |  |
To his Honoured and Ingenious Friend Mr. Edmund Prestwich, upon his Poems, and Translation of Hippolitus.
Most men wil sure mistake when they beholdMy rustick Muse, thus confidently bold
Entruding in your Front; till they shall know
Her humbler pride, conceal'd her far more low
Until surpris'd, commanded, and confin'd,
Unto this height, by your Magnetick minde
Which you so richly have Imbodyed here
Though in anothers mould; you can appear
(I do believe in full as various shapes
As Jupiter ere did to act your rapes
Upon our Muses, since your curious art
Hath wrought a miracle of this desert
Which (like a Verger) I would stand and tell
Did not its Character too much excell
My crepid fancy, whilst by your Translation
As by a Magically replantation
From the vitriall form, old Seneca y've rais'd
In as full verdancy, as his most prais'd,
And vigorous youth, h've rendred him before
Both Symetry, and Features, and whats more
In true Pilosophy, which you impart
In lively Helycon to th' torrid wits
Of our poore panting times, where nought befits
The raging humour, but what's worthless born
Mean as the age; beneath a Poets scorn.
Though some there are, whose true born Eagle eies,
Will rightly scan it, and return the prize
Of ful grown Laurel, to the full blown Muse
Of your yet springing brow; none will refuse
To add a branch unto that wreath; whilst I
Thus like a shade contentedly stand by.
A Sable Foil dropt on the beauteous Front
And yet not cast the least of Lustre on't
Your Humble devoted Mat. Carter.
| Hippolitus | |