'Tis not a tale, 't is not a jest Admir'd with laughter at a feast, Nor florid talk, which can that title gain; 'Tis not to force some lifeless verses meet All, every-where, like man's, must be the soul, Such were the numbers which could call Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we see Yet 't is not to adorn and gild each part; Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear; If there be nothing else between. Men doubt, because they stand so thick i' th' sky, If those be stars which paint the Galaxy. 'Tis 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 her face; Sach dross the fire must purge away: 't is just "Tis not such lines as almost crack the stage And force some odd similitude. What is it then, which, like the Power Divine, 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, (If we compare great things with small) Which, without discord or confusion, lie In that strange mirror of the Deity. But Love, that moulds one man up out of two, I took you for myself, sure, when I thought And, if any ask me then What thing right Wit and height of Genius is, ON THE DEATH OF Mr. W. HERVEY. "Immodicis brevis est atas, & rara senectus." Mart. IT 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, My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, Of some intolerable fate. What bell was that? ah me! too much I know. My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, Thy soul and body, when Death's agony My dearest friend, would I had dy'd for thee! Life and this world henceforth will tedious be. Nor shall I know hereafter what to do, If once my griefs prove tedious too. As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by Alas! my treasure's gone! why do I stay? He was my friend, the truest friend on earth; For much above myself I lov'd them too. Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine; Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry, Arts which I lov'd, for they, my friend, were thine. Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade; Henceforth, no learned youths beneath you sing, No whistling winds through the glad branches fly: But all, with sad solemnity, Mute and unmoved be, Mute as the grave wherein my friend does lie. To him my Muse made haste with every strain, Whilst it was new and warm yet from the brain: He lov'd my worthless rhymes, and, like a friend, Would find out something to commend. Hence now, my Muse! thou canst not me delight: Be this my latest verse, With which I now adorn his hearse; And this my grief, without thy help, shall write. Had I a wreath of bays about my brow, It rage and crackle there. Instead of bays, crown with sad cypress me; Not Phœbus griev'd, so much as I, Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er High as the place 't was shortly' in heaven to have, So high, that all the Virtues there did come, Conspicuous and great; So low, that for me too it made a room. He scorn'd this busy world below, and all He, like the stars, to which he now is gone, Yet burn not with the same, Had all the light of youth, of the fire none. Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught, Whene'er the skilful youth discours'd or writ, About his eloquent tongue, Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. So strong a wit did Nature to him frame, Oh! had he liv'd in Learning's world, what bound His over-powering soul! We 'ave lost in him arts that not yet are found. His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, For the rich help of books he always took, As if wise Nature had made that her book. So many virtues join'd in him, as we Just like the first and highest sphere, With as much zeal, devotion, piety, He always liv'd, as other saints do die. |