Who was, nor this, nor that; but all we find,
And all we can imagine, in mankind.
On Mr. JOHN FLETCHER'S Plays.
LETCHER! to thee we do not only owe
F'All thefe good Plays, but thofe of others too:
Thy wit repeated, does fupport the Stage;
Credits the laft, and entertains this age.
No Worthies, form'd by any Mufe but thine,
Could purchase robes, to make themselves fo fine.
What brave commander is not proud, to see
Thy brave MELANTIUS in his gallantry?
Our greatest Ladies love to see their scorn
Out-done by thine, in what themselves have worn :
Th' impatient widow, e'er the year be done,
Sees thy AS PASIA weeping in her gown.
I never yet the Tragic ftrain affay'd,
Deter'd by that inimitable *-MAID.
And, when I venture at the Comic style,
Thy SCORNFUL LADY feems to mock my toil.
Thus has thy Muse at once improv'd, and mar'd,
Our sport in Plays, by rendring it too hard!
So, when a fort of lufty fhepherds throw
The bar by turns, and none the rest out-go
So far, but that the beft are meas'ring cafts,
Their emulation, and their pastime lasts:
But, if fome brawny Yeoman of the Guard
Step in, and tofs the axle-tree a yard,
Or more, beyond the furtheft mark the reft
Despairing stand, their sport is at the best.
*The Maid's Tragedy.
To Mr. GEORGE SANDYs, on his Tranflation of fome Parts of the Bible.
WOW bold a work attempts that
Which would inrich our vulgar tongue
With the high raptures of those men,
Who here with the fame spirit fung, Wherewith they now affift the choir Of Angels, who their fongs admire!
What-ever those inspired fouls
Were urged to express, did fhake The aged Deep, and both the Poles;
Their numerous thunder could awake
Dull earth, which does with heav'n confent
To all they wrote, and all they meant.
Say, facred Bard! what could bestow
Courage on thee, to foar fo high?
Tell me, brave friend! what help'd thee fo
To shake off all mortality?
To light this torch, thou haft climb'd high'r
Than* he who ftole cœleftial fire.
To Mr. HENRY LAWES who had then newly fet a Song of mine in the Year 1635.
VERSE makes Heroic virtue live; can life to ver les give.
As when in open air we blow,
The breath (tho' ftrain'd) founds flat and low:
But if a trumpet take the blast,
It lifts it high, and makes it last:
So in your Airs our numbers dreft,
Make a fhrill fally from the breaft
Of nymphs, who finging what we pen'd,
Our paffions to themselves commend ;
While LOVE, victorious with thy art,
Governs at once their voice, and heart.
You, by the help of tune, and time,
Can make that fong, which was but rhyme:
Noy pleading, no man doubts the Caufe;
Or questions verfes fet by LAWE S.
As a Church-window, thick with paint,
Lets in a light but dim, and faint:
So others, with divifion, hide
The light of fenfe, the Poets' pride :
But you alone may truly boaft
That not a fyllable is loft:
The writer's, and the fetter's, skill
At once the ravifh'd ears do fill.
Let those which only warble long,
And gargle in their throats a fong,
Content themselves with Ut, Re, Mi:
Let words, and fenfe, be fet by thee.
To Sir WILLIAM D'AVENANT, upon bis Two First Books of GONDIBERT, written in FRANCE.
HUS the wife Nightingale, that leaves her home,
Her native wood, when storms and winter come;
Perfuing conftantly the chearful fpring,
To foreign groves does her old mufic bring.
The drooping HEBREWS' banish'd harps, unftrung, At BABYLON, upon the willows hung:
Yours founds aloud, and tells us you excel
No lefs in courage, than in finging well;
While unconcern'd, you let your country know,
They have impoverish'd themselves, not you:
Who, with the MUSES' help, can mock those fates
Which threaten kingdoms, and disorder ftates.
So OVI D, when from CE SAR's rage he fled,
The ROMAN Mufe to PONTUs with him led:
Where he fo fung, that we, thro' pity's glass,
See NERO milder than AUGUSTUS was.
Hereafter fuch, in thy behalf, fhall be
Th' indulgent cenfure of pofterity.
To banish those who with fuch art can fing,
Is a rude crime, which its own curfe doth bring,
Ages to come shall ne'er know how they fought,
Nor how to love their prefent youth be taught.
This to thyself.
Now to thy matchless book i
Wherein those few that can with judgment look,
May find old love in pure fresh language told;
Like new-ftamp'd coin, made out of Angel-gold:
Such truth in love as th' antique world did know,
In fuch a ftyle as Courts may boast of now:
Which no bold tales of Gods or monfters fwell;
But human paffions, fuch as with us dwell.
Man is thy theme; his virtue, or his rage,
Drawn to the life in each elab'rate page.
MARS, nor BE LLONA, are not named here;
But fuch a GONDIBERT as both might fear:
VENUS had here, and HE BE, been outfhin'd,
By thy bright BIRTHA, and thy RHODALIND.
Such is thy happy skill, and fuch the odds
Betwixt thy Worthies, and the GRECIAN Gods!
Whofe Deities in vain had here come down,
Where mortal beauty wears the fov'reign crown:
Such as of flesh compos'd, by flesh and blood,
Though not refifted, may be understood.
To my Worthy Friend Mr. WAS E, the Tranflator of GRATIUS.
HUS, by the mufic, we may know
When noble wits a-hunting go,
Through groves that on PARNASS us grow.
The MUSES all the chase adorn ;
My Friend on PEGASUS is born;
And young APOLLO winds the horn.
Having old GRATIUS in the wind,
No pack of criticks e'er could find,
Or he know more of his own mind.
Here huntsmen with delight may read
How to chufe dogs, for fcent, or speed;
And how to change, or mend, the breed.
What arms to use, or nets to frame,
Wild beasts to combat, or to tame;
With all the myst'ries of that game.
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