TO FIVE MEMBERS OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.
And cannot go asunder:
But while the wicked starve, indeed The saints have ready at their need God's providence, and plunder.
Princes we are if we prevail, And gallant villains if we fail :
When to our fame 'tis told, It will not be our least of praise, Since a new state we could not raise.
To have destroy'd the old.
Then let us stay and fight, and vote, Till London is not worth a groat;
Oh 'tis a patient beast!
When we have gall'd and tir'd the mule, And can no longer have the rule,
We'll have the spoil at least.
For all those pretty knacks you compose, Alas, what are they but poems in prose? And between those and ours there's no difference, But that yours want the ryme, the wit, and the
But for lying (the most noble part of a poet) You have it abundantly, and yourselves know it; And though you are modest and seem to abhor it, 'T has done you good service, and thank Hell for it:
Although the old maxim remains still in force, That a sanctify'd cause must have a sanctify'd If poverty be a part of our trade, [course,
So far the whole kingdom poets you have made, Nay even so far as undoing will do it, You have made king Charles himself a poet : But provoke not his Muse, for all the world knows,
Already you have had too much of his prose.
HONOURABLE HOUSE OF COMMONS, Do you not know not a fortnight ago,
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE POETS.
AFTER FTER SO many concurring petitions From all ages and sexes, and all conditions, We come in the rear to present our follies To Pym, Stroude, Haslerig, Hampden, and Holles.
Though set form of prayer be an abomination, Set forms of petitions find great approbation: Therefore, as others from th' bottom of their souls,
So we from the depth and bottom of our bowls, According unto the bless'd form you have taught
We thank you first for the ills you have brought us: For the good we receive we thank him that gave And you for the confidence only to crave it. [it, Next in course, we complain of the great viola- Of privilege (like the rest of our nation); [tion But 'tis none of yours of which we have spoken, Which never had being until they were broken; But ours is a privilege ancient and native, Hangs not on an ordinance, or power legislative. And first, 'tis to speak whatever we please, Without fear of a prison or pursuivant's fees. Next, that we only may lye by authority; But in that also you have got the priority. Next, an old custom, our fathers did name it Poetical licence, and always did claim it. By this we have power to change age into youth, Turn nonsense to sense, and falsehood to truth; In brief, to make good whatsoever is faulty; This art some poet, or the Devil, has taught ye: And this our property you have invaded, And a privilege of both houses have made it. But that trust above all in poets reposed, That kings by them only are made and deposed, This though you cannot do, yet you are willing: But when we undertake deposing or killing, They're tyrants and monsters; and yet then the
Takes full revenge on the villains that do it : And when we resume a sceptre or crown, We are modest, and seek not to make it our own. But is 't not presumption to write verses to you, Who make better poems by far of the two?
How they bragg'd of a Western Wonder? When a hundred and ten slew five thousand men, With the help of lightning and thunder ?
There Hopton was slain again and again, Or else my author did lye; [living, With a new Thanksgiving, for the dead who are To God, and his servant Chidleigh.
But now on which side was this miracle try'd, I hope we at last are even;
[graves, For sir Ralph and his knaves are risen from their To cudgel the clowns of Devon,
And there Stamford came, for his honour was
Of the gout three months together; [lame But it prov'd when they fought, but a running For his heels were lighter than ever. (gout For now he outruns his arms and his guns,
And leaves all his money behind him; But they follow after; unless he takes water, At Plymouth again they will find him.
When out came the book which the news-monger | But, alas! he had been feasted From the preaching ladies letter, Where, in the first place, stood the Conqueror's Which made it show much the better. [face,
But now without lying, you may paint him flying, At Bristol they say you may find him, Great William the Con, so fast he did run, That he left half his name behind him.
With a spiritual collation, By our frugal mayor, Who can dine on a prayer, And sup on an exhortation. 'Twas mere impulse of spirit, Though he us'd the weapon carnal: Filly foal," quoth he, "My bride thou shalt be,
And now came the post, save all that was lost, And how this is lawful, learn all.
But alas, we are past deceiving By a trick so stale, or else such a tale Might amount to a new Thanksgiving.
Even to our whole profession A scandal 'twill be counted,
When 'tis talk'd with disdain, Amongst the profane,
How brother Green was mounted.
And in the good time of Christmas, Which though our saints have damn'd all, Yet when did they hear That a damn'd cavalier
E'er play'd such a Christmas gambal!
Had thy flesh, O Green, been pamper'd With any cates unhallow'd,
Hadst thou sweeten'd thy gums With pottage of plums,
Or profane mine'd pye hadst swallow'd:
Roll'd up in wanton swine's flesh,
The fiend might have crep into thee; Then fullness of gut
Might have caus'd thee to rut, And the Devil have so rid through thee.
"For if no respect of persons Be due 'mongst sons of Adam, In a large extent,
Thereby may be meant That a mare's as good as a madam.”
Then without more ceremony, Not bonnet vail'd, nor kiss'd her, But took her by force, For better for worse, And us'd her like a sister. Now when in such a saddle A saint will needs be riding, Though we dare not say 'Tis a falling away,
May there be not some back-sliding?
"No surely," quoth James Naylor, "Twas but an insurrection
Of the carnal part,
For a Quaker in heart Can never lose perfection.
"For (as our masters' teach us) The intent being well directed, Though the Devil trepan The Adamical man,
The saint stands uninfected."
But alas! a Pagan jury Ne'er judges what 's intended; Then say what we can, Brother Green's outward man
I fear will be suspended.
And our adopted sister Will find no better quarter, But when him we enrol For a saint, Filly Foal Shall pass herself for a martyr.
Rome, that spiritual Sodom, No longer is thy debtor,
O Colchester, now
Who's Sodom but thou,
Even according to the letter?
MORPHEUS, the humble god, that dwells In cottages and smoaky cells,
Hates gilded roofs and beds of down; And though he fears no prince's frown, Flies from the circle of a crown.
Come, I say, thou powerful god,
And thy leaden charming rod, Dipt in the Lethéan lake, O'er his wakeful temples shake,
Lest he should sleep, and never wake.
Nature (alas!) why art thou so Obliged to thy greatest foe? Sleep that is thy best repast, Yet of death it bears a taste, And both are the same thing at last.
MR. JOHN FLETCHER'S WORKS. So shall we joy, when all whom beasts and worms Have turn'd to their own substances and forms: Whom earth to earth, or fire hath chang'd to fire,
We shall behold more than at first entire ; As now we do, to see all thine thy own In this my Muse's resurrection,
But what in them is want of art or voice, In thee is either modesty or choice.
While this great piece, restor'd by thee, doth
Free from the blemish of an artless hand, Secure of fame, thou justly dost esteem Less honour to create, than to redeem. Nor ought a genius less than his that writ, Attempt translation; for transplanted wit, All the defects of air and soil doth share, And colder brains like colder climates are; In vain they toil, since nothing can beget A vital spirit but a vital heat.
That servile path thou nobly dost decline Of tracing word by word, and line by line. Those are the labour'd births of slavish brains, Not the effect of poetry, but pains; Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrowness affords No flight for thoughts, but poorly sticks at words.
A new and nobler way thou dost pursue To make translations and translators too. They but preserve the ashes, thou the flame,
Whose scatter'd parts from thy own race, more True to his sense, but truer to his fame.
Hath suffer'd, than Acteon from his hounds; Which first their brains, and then their belly fed,
And from their excrements new poets bred. But now thy Muse enraged, from her urn, Like ghosts of murder'd bodies, does return T'accuse the murderers, to right the stage, And undeceive the long-abused age,
Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy wit
Gives not more gold than they give dross to it: Who, not content, like felons, to purloin, Add treason to it, and debase the coin. But whither am I stray'd? I need not raise Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise; Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built, Nor need thy juster title the foul guilt Of eastern kings, who, to secure their reign, Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred slain. Then was Wit's empire at the fatal height, When labouring and sinking with its weight, From thence a thousand lesser poets sprung, Like petty princes from the fall of Rome; When Jonson, Shakespeare, and thyself did sit, And sway'd in the triumvirate of wit- Yet what from Jonson's oil and sweat did flow, Or what more easy Nature did bestow
On Shakespeare's gentler Muse, in thee full
Their graces both appear, yet so that none Can say, here Nature ends, and Art begins, But mixt like th' elements, and born like twins, So interwove, so like, so much the same, None, this mere Nature, that mere Art can name: 'Twas this the ancients meant ; Nature and Skill Are the two tops of their Parnassus' hill.
TO SIR RICHARD FANSHI AW,
UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF
PASTOR FIDO.
Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few but such as cannot write, translate.
Fording his current, where thou find'st it low, Let'st in thine own to make it rise and flow; Wisely restoring whatsoever grace
It lost by change of times, or tongues, or place. Nor fetter'd to his numbers and his times, Betray'st his music to unhappy rhymes. Nor are the nerves of his compacted strength Stretch'd and dissolv'd into unsinew'd length: Yet after all, (lest we should think it thine) Thy spirit to his circle dost confine. New names, new dressings, and the modern cast, Some scenes, some persons alter'd, and out- fac'd [known The world, it were thy work for we have Some thank'd and prais'd for what was less their
The faces of which ulceration Brought o'er the helm a distillation, Through th' instrument of propagation.
Then, cousin, (as I guess the matter) You have been an old fornicator, And now are shot 'twixt wind and water.
You that were once so economic, Quitting the thrifty style laconic, Turn prodigal in makeronic.
Yet be of comfort, I shall send-a Person of knowledge, who can mend-a Disaster in your nether end-a-
But you that are a man of learning, So read in Virgil, so discerning, Methinks towards fifty should take warning.
Once in a pit, you did miscarry, That danger might have made one wary This pit is deeper than the quarry. Give me not such disconsolation, Having now cur'd my inflammation, To ulcerate my reputation.
Though it may gain the ladies' favour, Yet it may raise an evil savour Upon all grave and staid behav'our.
And I will rub my mater pia, To find a rhyme to gonorrheia, And put it in my Litania.
Two kings like Saul, much taller than the rest, Their equal armies draw into the field: Till one take th' other prisoner they contest; Courage and fortune must to conduct yield. This game the Persian Magi did invent,
The force of Eastern wisdom to express ; From thence to busy Europeans sent,
And styl'd by modern Lombards pensive Chess. Yet some that fled from Troy to Rome report, Penthesilea Priam did oblige;
Her Amazons, his Trojans taught this sport, To pass the tedious hours of ten years' siege. There she presents herself, whilst kings and peers
Look gravely on whilst fierce Bellona fights; Yet maiden modesty her motion steers, Nor rudely skips o'er bishops' heads like knights.
PASSION OF DIDO FOR ENEAS.
HAVING at large declar'd Jove's embassy, He loth to disobey the god's command, Cyllenius from Æneas straight doth fly: Nor willing to forsake this pleasant land, Asham'd the kind Eliza to deceive,
But more afraid to take a solemn leave; He many ways his labouring thoughts revolves, But fear o'ercoming shame at last resolves (Instructed by the god of thieves 1) to steal Himself away, and his escape conceal. He calls his captains, bids them rig the fleet, That at the port they privately should meet; And some disembled colour to project, That Dido should not their design suspect: But all in vain he did his plot disguise; No art a watchful lover can surprise. She the first motion finds; love though most That wicked fame which their first love pro- Yet always to itself seems unsecure. [sure, claim'd,
Foretells the end; the queen with rage inflam'd Thus greets him: Thou dissembler, would'st thou Out of my arms by stealth perfidiously? [fly Could not the hand I plighted, nor the love, Nor thee the fate of dying Dido move? And in the depth of winter, in the night, Dark as thy black designs to take thy flight, To plow the raging seas to coasts unknown, The kingdom thou pretend'st to, not thy own! Were Troy restor'd thou should'st mistrust a
False as thy vows, and as thy heart unkind. Fly'st thou from me? By these dear drops of brine
I thee adjure, by that right hand of thine, By our espousals, by our marrge-bed, If all my kindness aught have merited; If ever I stood fair in thy esteem, From ruin me and my lost house redeem. Cannot my prayers a free acceptance find, Nor my tears soften an obdurate mind?
My fame of chastity, by which the skies I reach'd before, by thee extinguish'd dies.
Into my horders. now Iarbus falls,
And my revengeful brother scales my walls; The wild Numidians will advantage take, For thee both Tyre and Carthage me forsake. Hadst thou before thy flight but left with me A young Æneas, who, resembling thee, Might in my sight have sported, I had then Not wholly lost, nor quite deserted been; By thee, no more my husband, but my guest, Betray'd to mischiefs, of which death's the least."
With fixed looks he stands, and in his breast By Jove's command, his struggling care sup- prest.
"Great queen, your favours and desert so great, Though numberless, I never shall forget; No time, until myself I have forgot, Out of my heart Eliza's name shall blot : But my unwilling flight the gods inforce, And that must justify our sad divorce. Since I must you forsake, would Fate permit, To my desires I might my fortune fit; Troy to her ancient splendour I would raise, And where I first began, would end my days. But since the Lycian lots, and Delphic god Have destin'd Italy for our abode;
Since you proud Carthage (fled from Tyre) enjoy,
Why should not Latium us receive from Troy?
As for my son, my father's angry ghost Tells me his hopes by my delays are crost, And mighty Jove's ambassador appear'd
With the same message, whom I saw and
We both are griev'd when you or I complain, But much the more when all complaints are vain:
I call to witness all the gods, and thy Beloved head, the coast of Italy Against my will I seek."
[eyes, Whilst thus he speaks, she rolls her sparkling Surveys him round, and thus incens'd replies; Thy mother was no goddess, nor thy stock From Dardanus, but in some horrid rock, Perfidious wretch, rough Caucasus thee bred, And with their milk Hyrcanian tigers fed. Dissimulation I shall now forget, And my reserves of rage in order set, Could all my prayers and soft entreaties force Sighs from his breast, or from his look remorse. Where shall I first complain? can mighty Jove Or Juno such impieties approve? The just Astræa sure is fled to Hell;
I'll follow thee in funeral flames, when dead My ghost shall thee attend at board and bed, And when the gods on thee their vengeance.
That welcome news shall comfort me below." This saying, from his hated sight she fled, Conducted by her damsels to her bed; Yet restless she arose, and, looking out, Beholds the fleet and hears the seamen shout, When great Æneas pass'd before the guard, To make a view how all things were prepar'd. Ah, cruel Love, to what dost thou inforce Poor mortal breasts! Again she hath recourse To tears and prayers, again she feels the smart Of a fresh wound from his tyrannic dart. That she no ways nor means may leave untry'd, Thus to her sister she herself apply'd; "Dear sister, my resentiment had not been So moving, if this fate I had foreseen; Therefore to me this last kind office do, Thou hast some interest in our scornful foe, He trusts to thee the counsels of his mind, Thou his soft hours, and free access canst find; Tell him I sent not to the Ilian coast My fleet to aid the Greeks; his father's ghost I never did disturb; ask him to lend To this, the last request that I shall send, A gentle ear; I wish that he may find A happy passage, and a prosperous wind. The contract I don't plead, which he betray'd, Nor that his promis'd conquest be delay d; All that I ask is but a short reprieve, Till I forget to love, and learn to grieve; Some pause and respite only I require, Till with my tears I shall have quench'd my fire. If thy address can but obtain one day Or two, my death that service shall repay." Thus she entreats; such messages with tears Condoling Anne to him, and from him, bears, But him no prayers, nor arguments can move; The Fates resist, his ears are stopt by Jove. As when fierce northern blasts from th' Alps descend,
From his firm roots with struggling gusts to An aged sturdy oak, the rattling sound [rend Grows loud, with leaves and scatter'd arms the Is over-laid; yet he stands fixt, as high [ground As his proud head is rais'd towards the sky, So low towards Hell his roots descend. With prayers
And tears the hero thus assail'd, great cares He smothers in his breast, yet keeps his post, All their addresses and their labour lost. Then she deceives her sister with a smile: Anne, in the inner court erect a pile; Thereon his arms and once-lov'd portrait lay, Thither our fatal marriage-bcd convey; All cursed monuments of him with fire We must abolish (so the gods require.")}
Nor more in Earth, nor Heaven itself will dwell. Oh Faith! him on my coasts by tempest cast, Receiving madly, on my throne I plac'd ; His men from famine, and his fleet from fire I rescued: Now the Lycian lots conspire With Phoebus; now Jove's envoy though the She gives her credit for no worse effect
Brings dismal tidings; as if such low care Could reach their thoughts, or their repose dis- turb!
Thou art a false impostor, and a fourbe; Go, go, pursue thy kingdom through the main, I hope, if Heaven her justice still retain, Thou shalt be wreck'd, or cast upon some rock, Where thou the name of Dido shalt invoke:
Than from Sichæus' death she did suspect, And her commands obeys.
Aurora now had left Tithonus' bed, And o'er the world her blushing rays did spread; The queen beheld, as soon as day appear'd, The navy under sail, the haven clear'd; Thrice with her hand her naked breast she
And from her forehead tears her golden locks
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