Part 11 (2/2)

Or a German s.h.i.+rt with enchanted lint Stuff'd through, and th' devil's beard and face weav'd in't.

But I have done. And think not, friend, that I This freedom took to jeer thy courtesy.

I thank thee for't, and I believe my Muse So known to thee, thou'lt not suspect abuse.

She did this, 'cause--perhaps--thy love paid thus Might with my thanks outlive thy cloak, and us.

UPON MR. FLETCHER'S PLAYS, PUBLISHED 1647.

I knew thee not, nor durst attendance strive, Label to wit, verser remonstrative, And in some suburb-page--scandal to thine-- Like Lent before a Christmas scatter mine.

This speaks thee not, since at the utmost rate Such remnants from thy piece entreat their date; Nor can I dub the copy, or afford t.i.tles to swell the rear of verse with lord; Nor politicly big, to inch low fame, Stretch in the glories of a stranger's name, And clip those bays I court; weak striver I, But a faint echo unto poetry.

I have not clothes t'adopt me, nor must sit For plush and velvet's sake, esquire of wit.

Yet modesty these crosses would improve, And rags near thee, some reverence may move.

I did believe--great Beaumont being dead-- Thy widow'd Muse slept on his flow'ry bed; But I am richly cozen'd, and can see Wit transmigrates: his spirit stay'd with thee; Which, doubly advantag'd by thy single pen, In life and death now treads the stage again.

And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit Which starv'd the land, since into schisms split, Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess Wit's last edition is now i' th' press.

For thou hast drain'd invention, and he That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee.

But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain At the designs of such a tragic brain?

Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see Thy most abominable policy?

Will not the Ears a.s.semble, and think't fit Their Synod fast and pray against thy wit?

But they'll not tire in such an idle quest; Thou dost but kill, and circ.u.mvent in jest; And when thy anger'd Muse swells to a blow 'Tis but for Field's, or Swansted's overthrow.

Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve The peace of spirits: and when such deeds fail Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail.

But--happy thou!--ne'er saw'st these storms, our air Teem'd with even in thy time, though seeming fair.

Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease, Withdrew betimes into the Land of Peace.

So nested in some hospitable sh.o.r.e The hermit-angler, when the mid-seas roar, Packs up his lines, and--ere the tempest raves-- Retires, and leaves his station to the waves.

Thus thou died'st almost with our peace, and we This breathing time thy last fair issue see, Which I think such--if needless ink not soil So choice a Muse--others are but thy foil.

This, or that age may write, but never see A wit that dares run parallel with thee.

True, Ben must live! but bate him, and thou hast Undone all future wits, and match'd the past.

UPON THE POEMS AND PLAYS OF THE EVER-MEMORABLE MR. WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

I did but see thee! and how vain it is To vex thee for it with remonstrances, Though things in fas.h.i.+on; let those judge, who sit Their twelve pence out, to clap their hands at wit I fear to sin thus near thee; for--great saint!-- 'Tis known true beauty hath no need of paint.

Yet, since a label fix'd to thy fair hea.r.s.e Is all the mode, and tears put into verse Can teach posterity our present grief And their own loss, but never give relief; I'll tell them--and a truth which needs no pa.s.s-- That wit in Cartwright at her zenith was.

Arts, fancy, language, all conven'd in thee, With those grand miracles which deify The old world's writings, kept yet from the fire Because they force these worst times to admire.

Thy matchless genius, in all thou didst write, Like the sun, wrought with such staid heat and light, That not a line--to the most critic he-- Offends with flashes, or obscurity.

When thou the wild of humours track'st, thy pen So imitates that motley stock in men, As if thou hadst in all their bosoms been, And seen those leopards that lurk within.

The am'rous youth steals from thy courtly page His vow'd address, the soldier his brave rage; And those soft beauteous readers whose looks can Make some men poets, and make any man A lover, when thy slave but seems to die, Turn all his mourners, and melt at the eye.

Thus thou thy thoughts hast dress'd in such a strain As doth not only speak, but rule and reign; Nor are those bodies they a.s.sum'd dark clouds, Or a thick bark, but clear, transparent shrouds, Which who looks on, the rays so strongly beat They'll brush and warm him with a quick'ning heat; So souls s.h.i.+ne at the eyes, and pearls display Through the loose crystal-streams a glance of day.

But what's all this unto a royal test?

Thou art the man whom great Charles so express'd!

Then let the crowd refrain their needless hum, When thunder speaks, then squibs and winds are dumb.

TO THE BEST AND MOST ACCOMPLISHED COUPLE----

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