Part 7 (1/2)
A Sacred Method Kings receive from Heaven, That still does Cherish, when it has Forgiven; Which from our Princes Soul so largely flows, That Mercy's Channel with his Greatness goes.
No Arbitrary Whispers him can guide To swell his Rule beyond its genuine Tide: Whilst other Kings their rugged Scepters see Eclips'd in his more soft Felicity; Whose Goodness can all Stress of State remove, So fitly own'd the Subjects Fear and Love.
My Verse might here discharge its hasty Flight, } As Pencils that attempt Immortal Heighth } Droop in the Colours should convey its Light, } Did not this Poet's Lines upon me call For some Reflexions on a Lower Fall; Where he by Rhyming, a _Judaick_ Sham, Obtrudes for _Israelites_ some Seeds of _Cham_.
And this Inspexion needs no further go Than where his Pen does most Indulgent show: And 'tis no wonder if his _Types_ of Sense Should stroke such _Figures_ as give down their Pence; A Crime for which some Poets Lines so stretch, As on themselves they Metaphor _Jack Ketch_.
Tho small the Varnish is to Humane Name, Where Cogging Measures rob the truth of Fame.
And more to do his skew'd _Encomiums_ right, Some Persons speak by him their motly Sight: Or much like _Hudibras_, on Wits pretence, Some Lines for Rhyme, and some to gingle Sense.
Who else would _Adriel_, _Jotham_, _Hushai_, fit, With loathed _Amiell_, for a Court of Wit?
For, as Men Squares of Circles hardly find, Some think these Measures are as odly joyn'd.
What else could _Adriell_'s sharpness more abuse, Than headlong dubb'd, to own himself a Muse, Unless to spread Poetick Honours so As should a Muse give each St. _George_'s Show?
A Mode of Glory might _Parna.s.sus_ fit, Tho our Sage Prince knows few he'd Knight for Wit.
And thus this Freak is left upon the File, Or as 'tis written in this Poet's Stile.
Next, as in Course, to _Jotham_ we'll descend, Thoughtful it seems which Side he'll next befriend, As thinking Brains can caper to and fro, Before they jump into the Box they'd go.
And 'tis a moody Age, as many guess, When some with busie Fears still forward press; As 'tis Ambitions oft-deluding Cheat To tempt Mens aims, secureless of defeat.
_Hushai_ the Compa.s.s of th'_Exchequer_ guides, Propense enough unto the North besides: As what can steady Stations more allure, Than such, a Princely Bed does first secure?
Whose Part none are so ignorant to ask, And does no less employ his Ends and Task.
But quitting these, we must for Prospect pa.s.s To gaping _Amiell_, as reflects our Gla.s.s.
The _Him_ indeed of his own *Western Dome, [Sidenote: _See his_, p. 27.]
So near his praiseful Poet Sense may come: For *_Amiell_, _Amiell_, who cannot endite [Sidenote: _See his_, p. 28.]
Of his _Thin_ Value won't disdain to write?
The very _Him_ with Gown and Mace did rule The _Sanedrim_, when guided by a Fool.
The _Him_ that did both Sense and Reason s.h.i.+ft, That he to gainful Place himself might lift.
The very _Him_ that did adjust the Seed Of such as did their Votes for Money breed.
The Mighty _Him_ that frothy Notions vents, In hope to turn them into Presidents.
The _Him_ of _Hims_, although in Judgment small, That fain would be the biggest at _Whitehall_.
The He that does for Justice Coin postpone, As on Account may be hereafter shown.
If this plain _English_ be, 'tis far from Trick, Though some Lines gall, where others fawning lick; Which fits thy Poet, _Amiell_, for thy Smiles, If once more paid to blaze thy hated Toils.
Of Things and Persons might be added more, Without Intelligence from Forreign Sh.o.r.e, Or what Designs Amba.s.sadors contrive, Or how the Faithless _French_ their Compa.s.s guide: But Lines the busie World too much supply, Besides th'Effects of evil Poetry, Which much to _Tory_-Writers some ascribe, Though hop'd no Furies of the _Whiggish_ Tribe Will on their Backs such Lines or Shapes convey, To burn with Pope, on Great _November_'s Day.
_FINIS._
[Erratum:
And such Heaven bids thee not relinquish too.
_text reads ”relinqnish”_ ]
AZARIA AND HUSHAI,
A POEM.
_Quod cuique visum est sentiant._
_LONDON,_ Printed for _Charles Lee_, An. Dom. 1682.
TO THE READER.
I shall not go about, either to excuse, or justifie the Publis.h.i.+ng of this Poem; for that would be much more an harder Task than the Writing of it: But however, I shall say, in the words of the Author of the incomparable _Absalom_ and _Achitophel_, _That I am sure the Design is honest_. If Wit and Fool be the Consequence of _Whig_ and _Tory_, no doubt, but Knave and a.s.s may be Epithets plentifully bestowed upon me by the one party, whilst the other may grant me more favourable ones, than perhaps I do deserve. But as very few are Judges of Wit, so I think, much fewer of honesty; since Interest and Faction on either side, prejudices and blinds the Judgment; and the violence of Pa.s.sion makes neither discernible in an Adversary. I know not whether my Poem has a _Genius_ to force its way against prejudice: Opinion sways much in the World, and he that has once gained it writes securely. I speak not this any ways to lessen the merits of an Author, whose Wit has deservedly gained the Bays; but in this I have the advantage, since, as I desire not Glory or vain applause, I can securely wrap my self in my own Cloud, and remain unknown, whilest he is exposed through his great l.u.s.tre.
I shall never envy what I desire not, nor am I altogether so doting, as to believe the Issues of my own Brain to exceed all others, and to be so very fond of them, (as most Authors, especially Poets, are) as to think them without fault, or be so blinded as not to see their blemishes, and that they are excelled by others; yet since Poems are like Children, it may be allowed me to be naturally inclined to have some good Opinion of my own, and not to believe this Poem altogether despicable or ridiculous. The Ancients say, that every thing hath two handles, I have laid hold of that opposite to the Author of _Absalom_: As to Truth, who has the better hold, let the World judge; and it is no new thing, for the same Persons, to be ill or well represented, by several parties.