'Tis faid that conjurers have an art found out
To carry fpirits confin'd in rings about:
The wonder now will lefs appear,
When we behold your magic here.
You, by your rings, do prisoners take,
And chain them with your mystic spells,
And, the strong witchcraft full to make,
Love, the great devil, charm'd to thofe circles, dwells.
They who above do various circles find,
Say, like a ring th' Equator heaven does bind.
When heaven shall be adorn'd by thee
(Which then more Heaven than 'tis will be),
'Tis thou must write the pofy there ;
For it wanteth one as yet,
Though the fun pafs through 't twice a year;
The fun, who is esteem'd the God of wit.
Happy the hands which wear thy facred rings,
They
teach thofe hands to write myfterious things.
Let other rings, with jewels bright,
Caft around their coftly light;
Let them want no noble ftone,
By nature rich and art refin'd;
Yet fhall thy rings give place to none, But only that which must thy marriage bind.
BEFORE THE PRINCE
WHO fays the times do learning difallow?
'Tis false; 'twas never honour'd so as now.
When you appear, great Prince! our night is done;
You are our morning-star, and shall be' our fun.
But our fcene 's London now; and by the rout
We perish, if the Round-heads be about:
For now no ornament the head muft wear,
No bays, no mitre, not fo much as hair.
How can a play pass fafely, when ye know
Cheapfide-crofs falls for making but a show?
Our only hope is this, that it may be
A play may pass too, made extempore.
Though other arts poor and neglected grow,
They 'll admit Poefy which was always fo.
But we contemn the fury of these days,
And scorn no less their censure than their praise :
Our Muse, bleft Prince! does only' on you rely
Would gladly live, but not refuse to die.
Accept our hafty zeal! a thing that 's play'd
Ere 'tis a play, and acted ere 'tis made.
Our ignorance, but our duty too, we show;
I would all ignorant people would do fo!
At other times expect our wit or art;
This comedy is acted by the heart.
THE play, great Sir! is done; yet needs muft
Though you brought all your father's mercies here,
may offend your Highness; and we 'ave now
Three hours done treason here, for aught we know.
But power your grace can above Nature give,
It can give power to make abortives live
In which, if our bold wishes should be croft,
'Tis but the life of one poor week 't has loít :
Though it should fall beneath your mortal fcorn,
Scarce could it die more quickly than 'twas born.
"Immodicis brevis eft ætas, & rara fenectus." MART.
T was a dismal and a fearful night,
Scarce could the morn drive on th' unwilling light,
When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,
By something liker death possest.
My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,
And on my foul hung the dull weight
Of fome intolerable fate.
What bell was that? ah me! too much I know.
My fweet companion, and my gentle peer,
Why haft thou left me thus unkindly here,
Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan?
O, thou haft left me all alone!
Thy foul and body, when Death's agony
Befieg'd around thy noble heart,
Did not with more reluctance part,
Than I, my dearest friend! do part from thee.
My dearest friend, would I had dy'd for thee!
Life and this world henceforth will tedious be.
Nor fhall I know hereafter what to do,
If once my griefs prove tedious too.
Silent and fad I walk about all day,
As fullen ghofts stalk speechless by
Where their hid treasures lie;
Alas! my treasure 's gone! why do I stay?
He
He was my friend, the truest friend on earth;
ftrong and mighty influence join'd our birth ;
Nor did we envy the most sounding name
By friendship given of old to fame.
None but his brethren he and fifters knew,
Whom the kind youth preferr'd to me
And ev'n in that we did agree,
For much above myself I loy'd them too.
Say, for you faw us, ye immortal lights,
How oft unweary'd have we spent the nights,
Till the Ledaan stars, fo fam'd for love,
Wonder'd at us from above!
We spent them not in toys, in lufts, or wine;
But fearch of deep Philofophy,
Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry,
Arts which I lov'd, for they, my friend, were thine.
Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, fay
Have ye not feen us walking every day?
Was there a tree about which did not know
The love betwixt us two?
Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade ; ; fad branches thicker join,
And into darkfome fhades combine,
Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid!
Henceforth, no learned youths beneath you fing,
Till all the tuneful birds to' your boughs they bring ;
No tuneful birds play with their wonted chear,
And call the learned youths to hear;
No whistling winds through the glad branches fly.
But all, with fad folemnity,
grave wherein my friend does lie.
To him my Muse made hafte with every strain,
Whilft it was new and warm yet from the brain :
He lov'd my worthlefs rhymes, and, like a friend,
Would find out fomething to commend.
Hence now, my Mufe! thou canst not me delight:
Be this my latest verse,
With which I now adorn his hearfe;
And this my grief, without thy help, fhall write.
|