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I Do confess thou’rt smooth and fair,
And I might have been brought to love thee; But that I found the slightest pray'r
That breath could move, had power to move thee; But I can leave thee now alone As worthy to be lov'd by none. I do confess thou'rt sweet, but find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
That kisseth every thing it meets.
Arm'd with its briers, how sweet it smells !
Its sweet no longer with it dwells. But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves 'drop from it one by one. Such fate, ere long, will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been a while;
And I shall sigh, while some will smile.
“ Tentanda via est, &c."
WHAT shall I do to be for ever known,
And make the age to come my own?
Unless you write my elegy ;
Their mothers' labour, not their own.
The weight of that mounts this so high.
Brought forth with their own fire and light : If I, her vulgar stone, for either look,
Out of myself it must be strook.
Sure I Fame's trumpet hear :
Raise up the buried man.
And march, the Muses' Hannibal.
Nets of roses in the way !
And all that is not above Fate !
Which intercepts my coming praise.
'Tis time that I were gone,
All I was born to know:
He conquer'd th' earth, the whole world you. Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose blest tongue and wit
Preserves Rome's greatness yet :
Thou art the first of Orators ; only he
; Who best can praise thee, next must be. Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise !
Whose verse walks highest, but not flies ; » Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age,
And made that Art which was a Rage. Tell me, ye mighty l'hree! what shall I do
To be like one of you?
On the calm flourishing head of it,
See us, and clouds, below.
Thou who master art of it?
A thousand different shapes it bears,
Comely in thousand shapes appears. Yonder we saw it plain; and here 't is now, Like spirits, in a place we know not how.
London, that vents of false ware so much store,
In no ware deceives us more;
Some things do through our judgment pass
As through a multiplying-glass ; And sometimes, if the object be too far, We take a falling meteor for a star.
Hence 't is a Wit, that greatest word of fame,
Grows such a common naine; And Wits by our creation they become, Just so as titular bishops made at Rome.
'T is not a tale, 't is not a jest
Admir'd with laughter at a feast, Nor forid talk, which can that title gain; The proofs of Wit for ever must remain.
'T is not to force some lifeless verses meet
With their five gouty feet.
Such were the numbers which could call
The stones into the Theban wall. Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we see No towns or houses rais'd by poetry.
Yet 't is not to adorn and gild each part;
That shows more cost than art.
Several lights will not be seen,
If there be nothing else between. Men doubt, because they stand so thick i' th' sky, If those be stars which paint the Galaxy.
"T is not when two like words make up one noise
(Jests for Dutch men and English boys); In which who finds out Wit, the same may see In an'grams and acrostick poetry:
Much less can that have any place
At which a virgin hides ber face ;
When Bajazet begins to rage;
Nor upon all things to obtrude
And force some odd similitude.
In a true piece of Wit all things must be,
Yet all things there agree; As in the ark, join'd without force or strife, All creatures dwelt; all creatures that had life;
Or, as the primitive forms of all
(If we compare great things with small)
Makes me forget, and injure you :
Correct my error with thy pen;
And, if any ask me then
ON THE DEATH OF Mr. W. HERVEY.
“ Immodicis brevis est atas, & rara senectus." Mart.
was a dismal and a fearful night,
light, When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,
By something liker death possest.
And on my soul hung the dull weight
Of some intolerable fate.
O, thou hast left me all alone!
Besieg'd around thy noble heart,
Did not with more reluctance part,