'Twas not revenge for griev'd Apollo's wrong,
Those ass's ears on Midas' temples hung,
But fond repentance of his happy wish,
Because his meat grew metal like his dish.
Would Bacchus bless me so, I'd constant hold
Unto my wish, and die creating gold.
UPON BEN. JONSON.
MIRROR of poets! mirror of our age!
Which her whole face beholding on thy stage,
Pleas'd and displeas'd with her own faults, endures
A remedy like those whom music cures.
Thou hast alone those various inclinations
Which Nature gives to ages, sexes, nations;
So traced with thy all-resembling pen,
That whate'er custom has impos'd on men,
Or ill-got habit, (which deforms them so,
That scarce a brother can his brother know)
Is represented to the wondering eyes
Of all that see or read thy Comedies.
Whoever in those glasses looks, may find
The spots return'd, or graces, of his mind;
And by the help of so divine an art,
At leisure view and dress his nobler part.
Narcissus, cozen'd by that flattering well,
Which nothing could but of his beauty tell,
Had here, discovering the deform'd estate
Of his fond mind, preserv'd himself with hate.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad
In flesh and blood so well, that Plato had
Beheld, what his high fancy once embrac❜d,
Virtue with colours, speech, and motion grac'd.
The sundry postures of thy copious Muse
Who would express, a thousand tongues must use,
Whose fate's no less peculiar than thy art;
For as thou couldst all characters impart,
So none could render thine, which still escapes,
Like Proteus, in variety of shapes;
Who was nor this nor that; but all we find,
And all we can imagine, in mankind.
ON MR. JOHN FLETCHER'S PLAYS.
FLETCHER! to thee we do not only owe
All these good plays, but those of others too:
Thy wit repeated does support the stage,
Credits the last, and entertains this age.
No worthies, form'd by any Muse but thine,
Could purchase robes to make themselves so fine.
What brave commander is not proud to see
Thy brave Melantius in his gallantry?
Our greatest ladies love to see their scorn
Outdone by thine, in what themselves have worn:
The' impatient widow, ere the year be done,
Sees thy Aspasia weeping in her gown.
I never yet the tragic strain assay'd,
Deterr'd by that inimitable Maid 1;
And when I venture at the comic style,
Thy Scornful Lady seems to mock my toil.
Thus has thy Muse at once improv'd and marr'd
Our sport in plays, by rendering it too hard!
So when a sort of lusty shepherds throw
The bar by turns, and none the rest outgo
So far, but that the best are measuring casts,
Their emulation and their pastime lasts;
But if some brawny yeoman of the guard
Step in, and toss the axletree a yard
Or more beyond the furthest mark, the rest
Despairing stand, their sport is at the best.
DR. GEORGE ROGERS',
ON HIS TAKING THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR IN PHYSIC
AT PADUA, IN THE YEAR 1664.
WHEN as of old the earth's bold children strove,
With hills on hills, to scale the throne of Jove,
Pallas and Mars stood by their sovereign's side,
And their bright arms in his defence employ'd;
While the wise Phoebus, Hermes, and the rest,
Who joy in peace, and love the Muses best,
Descending from their so distemper'd seat,
Our groves and meadows chose for their retreat.
There first Apollo tried the various use
Of herbs, and learn'd the virtues of their juice,
And fram'd that art, to which who can pretend
A juster title than our noble friend?
Whom the like tempest drives from his abode,
And like employment entertains abroad.
This crowns him here, and in the bays, so earn'd,
His country's honour is no less concern'd,
1 This little poem was printed, together with several others on the same occasion, by Dr. Rogers, alone with his inaugu ral exercise at Padua, and afterwards in the same manner republished by him at London, together with his Harveian oration before the College of Physicians, in the year 1682, while Mr. Waller was yet living.
Though the above verses were first printed in 1664, they seem to have been written before the Restoration, as appears from the lines toward the conclusion.
Since it appears not all the English rave,
To ruin bent; some study how to save:
And as Hippocrates did once extend
His sacred art, whole cities to amend;
So we, brave friend! suppose that thy great skill,
Thy gentle mind and fair example, will,
At thy return, reclaim our frantic isle,
Their spirits calm, and peace again shall smile.
HYLAS, oh Hylas! why sit we mute,
Now that each bird saluteth the spring?
Wind up the slacken'd strings of thy lute,
Never canst thou want matter to sing;
For love thy breast does fill with such a fire,
That whatsoe'er is fair moves thy desire.
HYL. Sweetest! you know the sweetest of things
Of various flow'rs the bees do compose;
Yet no particular taste it brings
Of violet, woodbine, pink, or rose :
So love the result is of all the graces
Which flow from a thousand several faces.
CHLO. Hylas! the birds which chant in this grove,
Could we but know the language they use,
They would instruct us better in love,
And reprehend thy inconstant Muse;
For love their breasts does fill with such a fire, That what they once do choose, bounds their desire.
HYL. Chloris! this change the birds do approve, Which the warm season hither does bring; Time from yourself does further remove
You than the winter from the gay spring: She that like lightning shin'd while her face lasted, The oak now resembles which lightning hath blasted.
SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S VERSES.
STAY here, fond youth! and ask no more; be wise; Knowing too much long since lost paradise.
PRO. And by your knowledge we should be bereft
Of all that paradise which yet is left. [should still
CON. The virtuous joys thou hast, thou wouldst
Last in their pride; and wouldst not take it ill
If rudely, from sweet dreams, and for a toy,
Thou wak'd he wakes himself that does enjoy.
PRO. How can the joy or hope which you allow
Be styled virtuous, and the end not so?
Talk in your sleep, and shadows still admire!
'Tis true, he wakes that feels this real fire;
But-to sleep better; for whoe'er drinks deep
Of this Nepenthe, rocks himself asleep.
CON. Fruition adds no new wealth but destroys,
And while it pleaseth much, yet still it cloys.
Who thinks he should be happier made for that,
As reas'nably might hope he might grow fat
By eating to a surfeit: this once past,
What relishes? ev'n kisses lose their taste.
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