Selected quad for the lemma: truth_n
Text snippets containing the quad
|
ID |
Title |
Author |
Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication) |
STC |
Words |
Pages |
|
A64746
|
Olor Iscanus. A collection of some select poems, and translations, / formerly written by Mr. Henry Vaughan silurist. ; Published by a friend.
|
Vaughan, Henry, 1622-1695.
|
1651
(1651)
|
Wing V123; ESTC R6212
|
34,854
|
81
|
speaks thee not since at the utmost rate Such remnants from thy piece Intreat their date Nor can I dub the Coppy or afford Titles to swell the reare of Verse with Lord Nor politickly big to Inch low fame Stretch in the glories of a strangers name And Clip those Bayes I Court weak striver I But a faint Echo unto Poetrie I have not Clothes t' adopt me not must sit For Plush and Velvets sake Esquire of wit Yet Modestie these Crosses would improve And Rags neer thee some Reverencemay move I did believe great Beaumont being dead Thy Widow'd Muse slept on his flowrie bed But I am richly Cosen'd and can see Wit transmigrates his Spirit stayd with thee Which doubly advantag'd by thy single pen In life and death now treads the Stage agen And thus are wee freed from that dearth of wit Which starv'd the Land since into Schismes split Wherein th' hast done so much wee must needs guesse Wits last Edition is now i' th Presse For thou hast drain'd Invention and he That writes hereafter doth but pillage thee But thou hast plotts and will not the Kirk strain At the Designe of such a Tragick brain Will they themselves think safe when they shall see Thy most abominable policie Will not the Eares assemble and think 't fit Their Synod fast and pray against thy wit But they 'le not lyre in such an idle Quest Thou doest but kill and Circumvent in Iest And when thy anger'd Muse swells to a blow 'T is but for Field's or Swansteed's overthrow Yet shall these Conquests of thy Bayes outlive Their Scotish zeale and Compacts made to grieve The Peace of Spirits and when such deeds fayle Of their foule Ends a faire name is thy Bayle But happy thou ne'r saw'st these stormes our aire Teem'd with even in thy time though seeming faire Thy gentle Soule meant for the shade and ease Withdrew betimes into the Land of Peace So neasted in some Hospitable shore The Hermit-angler when the mid-Seas roare Packs up his lines and ere the tempest raves Retyres and leaves his station to the waves Thus thou diedst almost with our peace and wee This breathing time thy last fair Issue see Which I think such if needless Ink not soyle So Choice a Muse others are but thy foile This or that age may write but never see A Wit that dares run Paralell with thee True BEN must live but bate him and thou hast Undone all future wits and match'd the past Upon the Poems and Playes of the ever memorable Mr. William Cartwright I Did but see thee and how vain it is To vex thee for it with Remonstrances Though things in fashion let those Iudge who sit Their twelve pence out to clap their hands at wit I fear to Sinne thus neer thee for great Saint 'T is known true beauty hath no need of paint Yet since a Labell fixt to thy fair Hearse Is all the Mode and tears put into Verse Can teach Posterity our present griefe And their own losse but never give reliefe I 'le tell them and a truth which needs no passe That wit in Cartwright at her Zenith was Arts Fancy Language all Conven'd in thee With those grand Miracles which deifie The old worlds Writings kept yet from the fire Because they force these worst times to admire Thy matchless Genius in all thou didst write Like the Sun wrought with such stayd beat and light That not a line to the most Critick he Offends with flashes or obscuritie When thou the wild of humours trackst thy pen So Imitates that Motley slock in men As if thou hadst in all their bosomes been And seen those Leopards that lurk within The am'rous Youth steals from thy Courtly page His vow'd Addresse the Souldier his brave rage And those soft beauteous Readers whose looks can Make some men Poets and make any ' man A Lover when thy Slave but seems to dye Turn all his Mourners and melt at the Eye Thus thou thy thoughts hast drest in such a strain As doth not only speak but rule and raign Nor are those bodyes they assum'd dark Clouds Or a thick bark but clear transparent shrouds Which who lookes on the Rayes so strongly beat They 'l brushe and warm him with a quickning heat So Souls shine at the Eyes and Pearls display Through the loose-Chrystal-streams a glaunce of day But what 's all this unto a Royall Test Thou art the Man whom great Charles so exprest Then let the Crowd refrain their needless humme When Thunder speaks then Squibs and Winds are dumb To the best and most accomplish'd Couple BLessings as rich and fragrant crown your heads As the mild heav'n on Roses sheds When at their Cheeks like Pearls they weare The Clouds that court them in a teare And may they be fed from above By him which first ordain'd your love Fresh as the houres may all your pleasures be And healthfull as Eternitie Sweet as the flowres first breath and Close As th' unseen spreadings of the Rose When he unfolds his Curtain'd head And makes his bosome the Suns bed Soft as your selves run your whole lifes and cleare As your own glasse or what shines there Smooth as heav'ns face and bright as he When without Mask or Tiffanie In all your time not one Iarre meet But peace as silent as his feet Like the dayes Warmth may all your Comforts be Untoil'd for and Serene as he Yet free and full as is that sheafe Of Sun-beams gilding ev'ry leafe When now the tyrant-heat expires And his Cool'd locks breath milder fires And as those parcell'd glories he doth shed Are the faire Issues of his head Which ne'r so distant are soon known By th' heat and lustre for his own So may each branch of yours wee see Your Coppyes and our Wonders be And when no more on Earth you must remain Invited hence to heav'n again Then may your vertuous virgin-flames Shine in those Heires of your fair names And teach the world that mysterie Your selves in your Posteritie So you to both worlds shall rich presents bring And gather'd up to heav'n leave here a Spring An Elegie on the death of Mr. R. Hall slain at Pontefract 1684. I Knew it would be thus and my Just fears Of thy great spirit are Improv'd to tears Yet slow these not from any base distrust Of a fair name or that thy honour must Confin'd to those cold reliques sadly sit In the same Cell an obscure Anchorite Such low distempers Murther they that must Abuse thee so weep not but wound thy dust But I past such dimme Mourners can descrie Thy same above all Clouds of obloquie And like the Sun with his victorious rayes Charge through that darkness to the last of dayes 'T is true fair Manhood hath a female Eye And tears are beauteous in a Victorie Not are wee so high-proofe but griefe will find Through all our guards a way to wound the mind But in thy fall what addes the brackish summe More