Which could no more his tongue and counfels miss;
Rome, the world's head, was nothing without his.
Wrong to thofe facred ashes I should do,
Should I compare any to him but you;
You, to whom Art and Nature did dispense
The confulship of wit and eloquence.
Nor did your fate differ from his at all,
Because the doom of exile was his fall;
For the whole world, without a native home,
Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
But like a melting woman suffer'd he,
He who before out-did humanity;
Nor could his fpirit constant and stedfaft prove,
Whose art 't had been, and greatest end, to move.
You put ill-fortune in fo good a dress,
That it out-fhone other men's happiness:
Had your profperity always clearly gone,
As your high merits would have led it on,
You 'ad half been loft, and an example then
But for the happy-the leaft part of men.
Your very fufferings did fo graceful fhew,
That fome strait envy'd your affliction too;
For a clear confcience and heroic mind
In ills their business and their glory find.
So, though lefs worthy ftones are drown'd in night,
The faithful diamond keeps his native light,
And is oblig'd to darkness for a ray,
That would be more opprefs'd than help'd by day.
Your foul then most shew'd her unconquer'd power,
Was stronger and more armed than the Tower.
Sure unkind Fate will tempt your fpirit.no more;
Sh' has try'd her weakness and your strength before.
T'oppose him ftill, who once has conquer'd fo,
Were now to be your rebel, not your foe;
Fortune henceforth will more of providence have,
And rather be your friend than be your flave.
Little thought the time would ever be,
That I fhould wit in dwarfifh pofies fee.
As all words in few letters live,
Thou to few words all fenfe doft give.
'Twas Nature taught you this rarè art,
In fuch a little much to fhew;
Who, all the good she did impart
To womankind, epitomiz'd in you.
If, as the ancients did not doubt to fing,
The turning years be well compar'd to' a ring,
We'll write whate'er from you we hear;
For that 's the pofy of the year.
This difference only will remain--
That Time his former face does fhew,
Winding into himself again;
But your unweary'd wit is always new.
'Tis faid that conjurers have an art found out
To carry fpirits confin'd in rings about:
The wonder now will less appear,
When we behold your magic here.
You, by your rings, do prifoners take,
And chain them with your myftic spells,
And, the ftrong witchcraft full to make, Love, the great devil, charm'd to those circles, dwells.
They who above do various circles find,
Say, like a ring th' Equator heaven does bind.
When heaven shall be adorn'd by thee
(Which then more Heaven than 'tis will be),
'Tis thou must write the pofy there;
For it wanteth one as yet,
Though the fun pass through 't twice a year;
The fun, who is esteem'd the god of wit.
Happy the hands which wear thy facred rings,
They'll teach thofe hands to write myfterious things.
Let them want no noble ftone,
By nature rich and art refin'd;
Yet fhall thy rings give place to none, But only that which muft thy marriage bind.
PROLOGUE TO THE GUARDIAN:
HO fays the times do learning difallow ?
"Tis falfe; 'twas never honour'd fo as now.
When you appear, great Prince! our night is done;
You are our morning-ftar, and fhall be' our fun.
But our scene's London now; and by the rout
We perish, if the Round-heads be about:
For now no ornament the head must wear,
No bays, no mitre, not fo much as hair.
How can a play pass fafely, when ye know
Cheapfide-crofs falls for making but a fhow?
Our only hope is this, that it may be
A play may pass too, made extemporé.
Though other arts poor and neglected grow,
They'll admit Poefy, which was always fo.
But we contemn the fury of these days,
And fcorn no less their cenfure than their praise :
Our Muse, bleft Prince! does only' on you rely;
Would gladly live, but not refuse to die.
Accept our hafty zeal! a thing that's play'd
Ere 'tis a play, and acted ere 'tis made.
Our ignorance, but our duty too, we show;
I would all ignorant people would do fo!
At other times expect our wit or art;
This comedy is acted by the heart.
THE EPILOGU E.
THE play, great Sir! is done; yet needs must
Though you brought all your father's mercies here,
It may offend your Highness; and we 'ave now
Three hours done treason here, for aught we know.
But power your grace can above Nature give,
It can give power to make abortives live;
In which, if our bold wishes should be croft,
'Tis but the life of one poor week 't has loft :
Though it should fall beneath your mortal scorn,
Scarce could it die more quickly than 'twas born.
"Immodicis brevis eft ætas, & rara fenectus." MART.
T was a dismal and a fearful night,
When fleep, death's image, left my troubled breaft,
By fomething liker death poffeft.
My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,
And on my foul hung the dull weight
Of fome intolerable fate.
What bell was that? ah me! too much I know.
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