In Answer to his Complemental Verses sent me under the
Name of CLEANOR.
Long my dull Muse in heavy slumbers lay, Indulging Sloth, and to soft Ease gave way, Her Fill of Rest resolving to enjoy, Or fancying little worthy her employ. When Noble Cleanors obliging Strains Her, the neglected Lyre to tune, constrains. Confus'd at first, she rais'd her drowsie Head, Ponder'd a while, then pleas'd, forsook her Bed. Survey'd each Line with Fancy richly fraught, Re-read, and then revolv'd them in her Thought.
And can it be? She said, and can it be? That 'mong the Great Ones I a Poet see? The Great Ones? who their Ill-spent time devide, 'Twixt dang'rous Politicks, and formal Pride, Destructive Vice, expensive Vanity, In worse Ways yet, if Worse there any be: Leave to Inferiours the despised Arts, Let their Retainers be the Men of Parts. But here with Wonder and with Joy I find, I'th' Noble Born, a no less Noble Mind; One, who on Ancestors, does not rely For Fame, in Merit, as in Title, high!
The Severe Godess thus approv'd the Laies: Yet too much pleas'd, alas, with her own Praise. But to vain Pride, My Muse, cease to give place, Virgils immortal Numbers once did grace A Smother'd Gnat: by high Applause is shown, If undeserv'd, the Praisers worth alone: Nor that you should believ't, is't always meant, 'Tis often for Instruction only sent, To praise men to Amendment, and display, By its Perfection, where their Weakness lay. This Use of these Applauding Numbers make Them for Example, not Encomium, take.
The Discontent.
I.
Here take no Care, take here no Care, my Muse, Nor ought of Art or Labour use: But let thy Lines rude and unpolisht go, Nor Equal be their Feet, nor Num'rous let them flow. The ruggeder my Measures run when read, They'l livelier paint th'unequal Paths fond Mortals tread. Who when th'are tempted by the smooth Ascents, Which flatt'ring Hope presents, Briskly they clime, and Great Things undertake; But Fatal Voyages, alas, they make: For 'tis not long before their Feet, Inextricable Mazes meet, Perplexing Doubts obstruct their Way, Mountains with-stand them of Dismay; Or to the Brink of black Dispaire them lead, Where's nought their Ruine to impede, In vain for Aide they then to Reason call, Their Series dazle, and their Heads turn round, The sight does all their Pow'rs confound, And headlong down the horrid Precipice they fall: Where storms of Sighs for ever blow, Where raped streams of Tears do flow, Which drown them in a Briny Floud. My Muse pronounce aloud, there's nothing Good, Nought that the World can show, Nought that it can bestow.