|
To Mr R. W.| |
Kindly I envy thy Songs perfection [f. 31] |
Built of all th'elements as or bodyes are: |
That litle of earth that'is in it, is a faire |
Delicious garden where all Sweetes are sowne. |
In it is cherishing fyer wch dryes in mee |
Griefe wch did drowne me: & halfe quench'd by it |
Are Satirique fyres wch vrg'd me to hate writt |
In skorne of all: for now I admyre thee. |
And as Ayre doth fullfill the hollownes |
Of rotten walls; so it myne emptines. |
Wher lost & movd it did begett this sound |
Wch as a lame Eccho of thyne doth rebound. |
Oh I was dead: but since thy song new life did give |
I recreated even by thy Creature live. |
|
To M. S. B.| |
O thou wch to search out the secret parts |
Of th'India, or rather Paradise |
Of knowledg, hast wt courage & advise |
Lately launchd into ye vast Sea of Arts; |
Disdaigne not in thy constant trauailing |
To do as other Voyagers, and make |
Some turnes into lesse creekes, and wisely take |
Fresh water at th'Heliconian Spring. |
I sing not Syren-like to tempt, for I |
Am harsh, nor as those Scismatiques wt you |
Wch draw all witts of good hope to ther crew: |
But seene in you bright sparks of poetry |
I though I brought no fuell had desyre |
Wt these articulate blasts to blow ye fyre. |