The MISER'S SPEECH; in a Masque.
BALLS of this metal flack'd Atlanta's pace,
amorous youth bestow'd the race; Venus (the nymph's mind measuring by her own) Whom the rich fpoils of cities overthrown Had proftrated to Mars, could well advise Th' adventurous lover how to gain the prize. Nor lefs may Jupiter to gold afcribe : For, when he turn'd himself into a bribe, Who can blame Danaë, or the brazen tower, That they withstood not that almighty shower ? Never till then, did Love make Jove put on A form more bright, and nobler, than his own: Nor were it juft, would he resume that shape, That flack devotion fhould his thunder fcape. 'Twas not revenge for griev'd Apollo's wrong, Thofe afs's ears on Midas' temples hung: But fond repentance of his happy with, Because his meat grew metal like his dish. Would Bacchus blefs me fo, I'd conftant hold Unto my wish, and die creating gold.
UPON BEN JONSON.
IRROR of Poets! Mirror of ou
Which, her whole face beholding on thy Stage,
Pleas'd, and difpleas'd, with her own faults, endures A remedy like thofe whom mufic cures.
Thou haft alone those various inclinations,
Which nature gives to ages, fexes, nations:
So traced with thy all-refembling pen,
That whate'er cuftom has impos'd on men,
Or ill-got habit (which deforms them fo,
That fcarce a brother can his brother know)
Is reprefented to the wondering eyes
Of all that fee or read thy comedies.
Whoever in thofe glaffes looks, may find
The spots return'd, or graces, of his mind:
And, by the help of fo divine an art,
At leifure view and drefs his nobler part.
Narciffus, cozen'd by that flattering Well,
Which nothing could but of his beauty tell,
Had here, discovering the deform'd estate
Of his fond mind, preferv'd himself with hate.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad
In flesh and blood fo well, that Plato had
Beheld, what his high fancy once embrac'd,
Virtue with colours, fpeech, and motion grac'd.
The fundry poftures of thy copious Muse
Who would express, a thousand tongues must use;
Whofe fate 's no lefs peculiar than thy art;
For as thou couldst all characters impart,
So none could render thine; which still escapes,
Like Proteus, in variety of fhapes:
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
Thy wit repeated, does support the Stage;
Credits the laft, and entertains this age.
No Worthies, form'd by any Muse but thine,
Could purchase robes, to make themselves fo fine.
What brave commander is not proud, to fee
Thy brave Melantius in his gallantry?
Our greatest Ladies love to fee their fcorn
Out-done by thine, in what themselves have worn:
Th' impatient widow, ere the year be done,
Sees thy Afpafia weeping in her gown.
I never yet the Tragic strain 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 Mufe at once improv'd and mar'd
Our sport in Plays, by rendering 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 measuring 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 rest
Despairing ftand, their sport is at the best.
TO MR. GEORGE SANDYS,
On his TRANSLATION of fome Parts of the BIBLE.
OW bold a work attempts that pen,
Which would enrich 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!
Whatever those inspired fouls
Were urged to express, did shake
The aged Deep, and both the Poles;
Their numerous thunder could awake
Dull earth, which does with Heaven consent
To all they wrote, and all they meant.
Say, facred Bard! what could bestow
Courage, on thee, to foar so high?
Tell me, brave friend! what help'd thee fo
To shake off all mortality?
To light this torch, thou haft climb'd higher
Than* he who ftole celeftial fire.
TO MR. HENRY LAWES, Who had then newly fet a Song of mine, in the Year 1635.
ERSE makes Heroic virtue live;
But you can life to verses give.
As when in open air we blow,
The breath (though strain'd) sounds flat and low:
But if a trumpet take the blast,
It lifts it high, and makes it laft:
So in your Airs our Numbers dreft,
Make a fhrill fally from the breast
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 Song, which was but Rhyme :
Noy pleading, no man doubts the caufe;
Or questions verses fet by Lawes.
As a church-window, thick with paint,
Lets in a light but dim and faint:
So others, with division, hide
The light of fenfe, the Poets' pride:
But you alone may truly boast
That not a fyllable is loft:
The writer's and the fetter's skill
At once the ravifh'd ears do fill.
* The Attorney General.
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