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Page 9
_Sat._ vi.
And in that which follows,
Et tel, en vous lisant, admire chaque traite,
Qui dans le fond de l'ame, & vous craint & vous hait.
Let _Lydgate_, _Chaucer_'s Scholar also be brought in for a Voucher;
#For _Chaucer_ that my Master was and knew
What did belong to writing Verse and Prose,
Ne'er stumbled at small faults, nor yet did view
With scornful Eye the Works and Books of those
That in his time did write, nor yet would taunt
At any Man, to fear him or to daunt.#
Tho' the Verse is somewhat antiquated, yet the Example ought not to be
despised by our modern Criticks, especially those who have any Respect
for _Chaucer_.
I might give more Instances out of _John Harding_, and our good old
Citizen, Alderman _Fabian_, besides many others: but out of that Respect
to the nice Genij of our Time, which they seldom allow to others, I will
hasten to the Times of greater Politeness, and desire that room may be
made, and attention given to a Person of no less Wit than Honour, the
_Earl of Surrey_, who at least had all the Elegancy of a gentle Muse,
that may deserve the Praises of our Sex,
Her Praise I tune whose Tongue doth tune the Spheres,
And gets new Muses in her Hearers Ears.
Stars fall to fetch fresh Light from her rich Eyes,
Her bright Brow drives the Sun to Clouds beneath.
Again,
O Glass! with too much Joy my Thoughts thou greets.
And again upon the Chamber where his admired _Geraldine_ was born;
O! if _Elyzium_ be above the Ground,
Then here it is, where nought but Joy is found.
And _Michael Drayton_, who had a Talent fit to imitate, and to celebrate
so great a Genius, of all our _English_ Poets, seems best to have
understood the sweet and harmonious placing of _Monosyllables_, and has
practised it with so great a Variety, as discovers in him a peculiar
Delight, even to Fondness; for which however, I cannot blame him,
notwithstanding this may be reputed the Vice of our Sex, and in him
be thought effeminate. But let the Reader judge for himself;
Care draws on Care, Woe comforts Woe again,
Sorrow breeds Sorrow, one Griefe brings forth twaine,
If live or dye, as thou doost, so do I,
If live, I live, and if thou dye, I dye;
One Hart, one Love, one Joy, one Griefe, one Troth,
One Good, one Ill, one Life, one Death to both.
Again,
Where as thou cam'st unto the Word of Love,
Even in thine Eyes I saw how Passion strove;
That snowy Lawn which covered thy Bed,
Me thought lookt white, to see thy cheeke so red,
Thy rosye cheeke oft changing in my sight,
Yet still was red to see the Lawn so white:
The little Taper which should give the Light,
Me thought waxt dim, to see thy Eye so bright.
Again,
Your Love and Hate is this, I now do prove you,
You Love in Hate, by Hate to make me love you.
And to the Countess of _Bedford_, one of his great Patronesses;
Sweet Lady yet, grace this poore Muse of mine,
Whose Faith, whose Zeal, whose Life, whose All is thine.
The next that I shall mention, is taken out of an ingenious Poem,
entituled, _The Tale of the Swans_, written by _William Vallans_ in
blank Verse in the time of Queen _Elizabeth_; for the reprinting of
which, we are obliged to that ingenious and most industrious Preserver
and Restorer of Antiquities, Mr. _Thomas Hearne_ of _Oxford_;
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