Selected quad for the lemma: book_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
book_n	know_v	speak_v	write_v	2,682	5	5.1468	4	true

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A65398	The poets complaint a poem : to which is added The character of poetry, written in prose.	T. W.	1682 (1682)	Wing W127A; ESTC R33757	8,810	25

But wish the Man they ne're had known But prythee Muse here calm thy Brow Least thou shouldst seem Revengeful too In every thing but Poetry Something impossible we see Rhet ' rick which we so much adore N'ere had a perfect Orator The lingring Chimist blows his Fire And waits till his own Lamp expire Searching for th' inchanted Stone Till he himself 's as cold as one The natural Philosopher About perpetual motion keeps a slir But straight his Engines rest obtain And all the motion 's in his Brain How nauseous are Grammatick fools Arm'd but with noise and canting Rules Where Lilly does debauch poor Verse And gibberish in Heroick dress Astronomy each faith engage And with dark Notions cheats the Age. But take off their disguise you 'll see It is more feign'd than Poetry Else let it for a certain show Whether this Globe has wings or no Or Ovid blame who said the Sun Did run away with Phaeton What is Geometry I 'de know But a salse brat of fancy too If 't is a Science let it tell How far from hence the Stars do dwell And the due proportion give between A direct and a crooked Line And what is Logick but a cheat Nothing or something worse than it A Delphich Sword bent any way To make Truth yeild to Sophistry Arithmetick how little Art Poetry is not so confin'd One Unite speak can all thy Art To the defects of Nature find Ye black Lectures of Mortality And of flegmatick Morality Adue Adue I soar too high For your short Wings to follow me Speak dull Philosopher what 's all You in mistake do Science call Since Socrates with much ado Learnt only that he nothing knew Nothing is unconfin'd and free Besides the Soul of Poetry When it does on the Organs play Throw all your mistick Books away And study Natures Library Move up to Heav'ns refulgent Throne There by the tab'ring Muses drawn First pause a while then write and all The Gods to Convocation call Then with impartial Frowns survey Man varying in Apostacy Pitty poor Princes that do grone Under the burden of a Crown And contemn Riches which we see Is but a golden Slavery We 're richer far in Poetry And when we punish Avarice 'T is only ' cause we ' ld cure the Vice But the dull crowd our Power profane And say we only Write for gain Altho Experience proves this sure 'T is only Writing makes us poor Yet we 're so just we 'l doe the Law Tho shame is all the gain we draw And when we serve them with a Play We must like Catch-poles sneak away But hold I 'me almost starved as I 'me a Sinner Prythee Jack trust me for a Dinner Poor Poet what a Wretch thou art grown Cast to a Dungeon from a Throne You who but now did reach the Skie Low as despair condemn'd to lie Those soaring thoughts thou didst admire With thy Poetick rage expire 'T was but a Dream and now I see Riddles untie themselves to fetter thee The Angels height procur'd their thrall But 't is thy lowness makes thee fall Had Nature giv'n thee a rich Mine Thou of all Fops hadst happiest been Thou hadst not been exposed thus Nor this complaint made thee ridiculous But now again my self I grow I th' Poet am yet wish I was not so Never poor Creature such strange Fortunes had A Poet 's not himself unless he 's Mad. Go backward Age go backward Age And to Ben's days reduce the Stage Whose easie Palats would commend What entertainments Heav'n did send Judges were then as Ladies now a days Whom any thing that 's Flesh and Bloud can please But now a Poet 's counted out of fashion And Wits the only drug in all the nation Nature and Fate such Rivals are That they can't Reign in the same Sphere And as when Kings each other thwart Th' unhappy Subjects feel the smart So those to whom Nature is kind Must fortunes rage and malice find And till these friends and partners grow Who can have Wit and Money too I 've often heard this question rise Whether Wit made Men Poor or Poverty Men Wise 'T was Poverty first me a Poet made And I 'de fain know him who is rich o' th' Trade But if the World has such a Creature He is a Monster and not made by Nature Poets must break before they well can doe And a great trade will make them bankrupts too They are good Chimists tho they do not know To make imperfect Metals currant grow Yet what you give them they 'll straight turn to Sack Nay if there 's need the very cloths o' th' back Then with that Sack they 'l wondrous things prepare They 'll Castles build nay Kingdomes in the Air And give themselves vast Lordships there And since they here so disagree About a paltry Lawrel-tree I wonder what a Devil will they doe When they hereafter to their lands will go But now I think on 't they 'll be all Gods there And every one will have a distinct Sphere For those great Deities of which we read Were by th' Almighty Poets made And they who did those God-heads make May at their pleasure take them back Honest dear Reader do not call This Author mean and pittiful Tho he has spoken in his rage The damn'd dull humour of the Age Yet by these following lines you 'll see His excellent good Company Quotations Lacy in his Prologue to Monsieur Rogolle I Am a Poet and I 'll prove it plain Both by my empty Purse and empty Brain I 've other Symptoms to confirm it too I 've Great and Self-Conceit of what I do I have my little Cullies too i' th' Town Both to admire my Works and lend a Crown My Poets Day I Morgage to some Citt At least six Months before my Play is Writ And on that day away the Poet runs Knowing full well in Sholes come all his Duns If these things make me not a proper Poet He that hath better Title let him show it Lacy in his Prologue to Pastor Fido. WHO would not damn a silly Rhiming Fop When there is scarce a Foreman of a Shop With Sense of Animal and Face of Stoick But Courts poor tawdry Sempstress in Heroick Will make you Rhimes on Cakes and Ale rehearse An Holyday-Treat at Islington in Verse Otway in his Prologue to the Cheats of Schapin NOW Wit is grown so common let me die Gentlemen scorn to keep it Company Leonard in his Prologue to the Country Innocence NEver was Wit so much abus'd before The Trade's grown common and the gilting Whore Debauch'd in every Street at every Door Sir Charles Scroop in his Prologue to Alexander HOW hard the Fate is of that Scribling Drudg Who writes to all and yet so few can judg Wit like Religion once Divine was thought And the dull Crowd believ'd as they were taught Now each Fanatick Fool pretends to ' xplain The Text and does the sacred Wit prophane Idem THen