Poetical Works of Edmund Waller and Sir John Denham Part 43

When we have gall'd and tired the mule, And can no longer have the rule, We'll have the spoil at least.

TO THE FIVE MEMBERS OF THE HONOURABLE HOUSE OF COMMONS, THE HUMBLE PEt.i.tION OF THE POETS.

After so many concurring pet.i.tions From all ages and s.e.xes, and all conditions, We come in the rear to present our follies To Pym, Stroud, Haslerig, Hampden, and Hollis.

Though set form of prayer be an abomination, Set forms of pet.i.tions find great approbation; Therefore, as others from th'bottom of their souls, So we from the depth and bottom of our bowels, According unto the bless'd form you have taught us, We thank you first for the ills you have brought us: 10 For the good we receive we thank him that gave it, And you for the confidence only to crave it.

Next in course, we complain of the great violation Of privilege (like the rest of our nation), But 'tis none of yours of which we have spoken, Which never had being until they were broken; But ours is a privilege ancient and native, Hangs not on an ord'nance, or power legislative.

And, first, 'tis to speak whatever we please, Without fear of a prison or pursuivants' fees. 20 Next, that we only may lie by authority; But in that also you have got the priority.

Next, an old custom, our fathers did name it Poetical license, and always did claim it.

By this we have power to change age into youth, Turn nonsense to sense, and falsehood to truth; In brief, to make good whatsoever is faulty; This art some poet, or the devil, has taught ye: And this our property you have invaded, And a privilege of both Houses have made it. 30 But that trust above all in poets reposed, That kings by them only are made and deposed, This though you cannot do, yet you are willing: But when we undertake deposing or killing, They're tyrants and monsters; and yet then the poet Takes full revenge on the villains that do it: And when we resume a sceptre or crown, We are modest, and seek not to make it our own.

But is't not presumption to write verses to you, Who make better poems by far of the two? 40 For all those pretty knacks you compose, Alas! what are they but poems in prose?

And between those and ours there's no difference, But that yours want the rhyme, the wit, and the sense: But for lying (the most n.o.ble part of a poet) You have it abundantly, and yourselves know it; And though you are modest and seem to abhor it, 'T has done you good service, and thank h.e.l.l for it: Although the old maxim remains still in force, That a sanctified cause must have a sanctified course, 50 If poverty be a part of our trade, So far the whole kingdom poets you have made, Nay, even so far as undoing will do it, You have made King Charles himself a poet: But provoke not his Muse, for all the world knows, Already you have had too much of his prose.

A WESTERN WONDER.

1 Do you not know, not a fortnight ago, How they bragg'd of a Western Wonder?

When a hundred and ten slew five thousand men, With the help of lightning and thunder?

2 There Hopton was slain, again and again, Or else my author did lie; With a new thanksgiving, for the dead who are living, To G.o.d, and his servant Chidleigh.

3 But now on which side was the miracle tried?

I hope we at last are even; For Sir Ralph and his knaves are risen from their graves, To cudgel the clowns of Devon.

4 And there Stamford came, for his honour was lame Of the gout three months together; But it proved, when they fought, but a running gout, For his heels were lighter than ever.

5 For now he outruns his arms and his guns, And leaves all his money behind him; But they follow after; unless he take water, At Plymouth again they will find him.

6 What Reading hath cost, and Stamford hath lost, Goes deep in the sequestrations; These wounds will not heal, with your new great seal, Nor Jephson's declarations.

7 Now, Peters and Case, in your prayer and grace, Remember the new thanksgiving; Isaac and his wife, now dig for your life, Or shortly you'll dig for your living.

A SECOND WESTERN WONDER.

1 You heard of that wonder, of the lightning and thunder, Which made the lie so much the louder: Now list to another, that miracle's brother, Which was done with a firkin of powder.

2 Oh, what a damp it struck through the camp!

But as for honest Sir Ralph, It blew him to the Vies without beard or eyes, But at least three heads and a half.

3 When out came the book, which the newsmonger took, From the preaching lady's letter, Where in the first place, stood the conqueror's face, Which made it show much the better.

4 But now, without lying, you may paint him flying, At Bristol they say you may find him, Great William the Con, so fast did he run, That he left half his name behind him.

5 And now came the post, save all that was lost, But, alas! we are past deceiving By a trick so stale, or else such a tale Might amount to a new thanksgiving.

6 This made Mr. Case, with a pitiful face, In the pulpit to fall a weeping, Though his mouth utter'd lies, truth fell from his eyes, Which kept the Lord Mayor from sleeping.

7 Now shut up shops, and spend your last drops, For the laws, not your cause, you that loathe 'em, Lest Ess.e.x should start, and play the second part Of worshipful Sir John Hotham.

A SONG.

1 Morpheus! the humble G.o.d, that dwells In cottages and smoky cells, Hates gilded roofs and beds of down; And though he fears no prince's frown, Flies from the circle of a crown:

2 Come, I say, thou powerful G.o.d, And thy leaden charming rod, Dipp'd in the Lethean lake, O'er his wakeful temples shake, Lest he should sleep, and never wake.

3 Nature, (alas!) why art thou so Obliged to thy greatest foe?

Sleep that is thy best repast, Yet of death it bears a taste, And both are the same thing at last.

ON MR JOHN FLETCHER'S WORKS.

So shall we joy, when all whom beasts and worms Have turn'd to their own substances and forms: Whom earth to earth, or fire hath changed to fire, We shall behold more than at first entire; As now we do to see all thine thy own In this my Muse's resurrection, Whose scatter'd parts from thy own race more wounds Hath suffer'd than Actaeon from his hounds; Which first their brains, and then their belly fed, And from their excrements new poets bred. 10 But now thy Muse enraged, from her urn, Like ghosts of murder'd bodies, does return T' accuse the murderers, to right the stage, And undeceive the long-abused age, Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy wit Gives not more gold than they give dross to it; Who not content, like felons, to purloin, Add treason to it, and debase the coin.

But whither am I stray'd? I need not raise Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise; 20 Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built, Nor needs thy juster t.i.tle the foul guilt Of eastern kings, who, to secure their reign, Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred slain.

Then was wit's empire at the fatal height, When labouring and sinking with its weight, From thence a thousand lesser poets sprung, Like petty princes from the fall of Rome; When Jonson, Shakespeare, and thyself, did sit, And sway'd in the triumvirate of wit. 30 Yet what from Jonson's oil and sweat did flow, Or what more easy Nature did bestow On Shakespeare's gentler Muse, in thee full grown Their graces both appear, yet so that none Can say, Here nature ends, and art begins; But mix'd like th'elements, and born like twins, So interwove, so like, so much the same, None this mere nature, that mere art can name: 'Twas this the ancients meant; nature and skill Are the two tops of their Parna.s.sus' hill. 40

TO SIR RICHARD FANSHAW, UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF 'PASTOR FIDO.'

Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few but such as cannot write, translate.

But what in them is want of art or voice, In thee is either modesty or choice.

While this great piece, restored by thee, doth stand Free from the blemish of an artless hand, Secure of fame, thou justly dost esteem Less honour to create than to redeem.

Nor ought a genius less than his that writ 9 Attempt translation; for transplanted wit All the defects of air and soil doth share, And colder brains like colder climates are: In vain they toil, since nothing can beget A vital spirit but a vital heat.

That servile path thou n.o.bly dost decline Of tracing word by word, and line by line.

Those are the labour'd births of slavish brains, Not the effect of poetry, but pains; Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrowness affords No flight for thoughts, but poorly sticks at words. 20 A new and n.o.bler way thou dost pursue To make translations and translators too.

They but preserve the ashes, thou the flame, True to his sense, but truer to his fame: Fording his current, where thou find'st it low, Let'st in thine own to make it rise and flow; Wisely restoring whatsoever grace It lost by change of times, or tongues, or place.

Nor fetter'd to his numbers and his times, Betray'st his music to unhappy rhymes. 30 Nor are the nerves of his compacted strength Stretch'd and dissolved into unsinew'd length: Yet, after all, (lest we should think it thine) Thy spirit to his circle dost confine.

New names, new dressings, and the modern cast, Some scenes, some persons alter'd, and outfaced The world, it were thy work; for we have known Some thank'd and praised for what was less their own.

That master's hand which to the life can trace The airs, the lines, and features of the face, 40 May with a free and bolder stroke express A varied posture, or a flatt'ring dress; He could have made those like, who made the rest, But that he knew his own design was best.