An apology for the study of northern antiquities Part 2

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 s.e.x,

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 Gla.s.s! 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 s.e.x, 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 Pa.s.sion 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, ent.i.tuled, _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_;

Among the which the merrie Nightingale With swete, and swete (her Brest again a Thorne.)

In another Place,

And in the Launde, hard by the Parke of _Ware_

Afterwards,

To _Ware_ he comes, and to the Launde he flies.

Again,

And in this Pompe they hie them to the Head.

I come now to the incomparable _Spencer_, against whose Judgment and Practice, I believe scarce any Man will be so bold as to oppose himself;

a.s.sure your self; it fell not all to Ground; For all so dear as Life is to my Heart, I deem your Love, and hold me to you bound.

Again,

Go say his Foe thy Shielde with his doth bear.

Afterwards,

More old than _Jove_, whom thou at first didst breed.

And,

And now the Prey of Fowls in Field he lies.

Nor must _Ben. Johnson_ be forgotten;

Thy Praise or Dispraise is to me alike; One doth not stroke me, nor the other strike.

Again,

Curst be his Muse, that could lye dumb, or hid To so true Worth, though thou thy self forbid.

In this Train of Voters for _Monosyllables_, the inimitable _Cowley_ marches next, whom we must not refuse to hear;

Yet I must on; what Sound is't strikes mine Ear?

Sure I Fames Trumpet hear.

And a little after,

Come my best Friends, my Books, and lead me on; 'Tis time that I were gone.

Welcome, great Stagirite, and teach me now All I was born to know.

And commending _Cicero_, he says,

Thou art the best of Orators; only he Who best can praise thee, next must be.

And of _Virgil_ thus,

Who brought green Poesy to her perfect Age, And made that Art, which was a Rage.

And in the beginning of the next Ode, he wou'd not certainly have apply'd himself to WIT in the harsh Cadence of _Monosyllables_, had he thought them so very harsh;

Tell me, O tell, what kind of thing is Wit, Thou who Master art of it.

Again,

In a true Piece of Wit all things must be Yet all things there agree.

But did he believe such Concord to be inconsistent with the use of _Monosyllables_, he had surely banished them from these two Lines; and were I to fetch Testimonies out of his Writings, I might pick a Jury of Twelve out of every Page.

And now comes Mr. _Waller_, and what does he with his _Monosyllables_, but,