TWAS Late , and Cold; when with a mightie Flame
Possest, I, to my quiet Studie came,
Rich, in a high pitch'd Rapture; well compos'd
In everie Facultie; my thoughts dispos'd
In sober Contemplation, of a Brave
Designe in witt, a Fancie which might save
A Name to Honour; and almost create
Eternitie, and Time anticipate;
Quicke formed in each part; soe strong, soe pure
I could not wish a better; and Ime sure
The pregnant Age, a richer could not boast;
Which surelie might, (had Poesie bene lost)
Have rais'd a liveing flame. But (Oh the Sad
Curse of Posteritie) when now I had
Survaied it true, in all Dimension
Of perfect feature; and the holie Crowne
Had kist with humble Reverence; which then
I thought unrivalld Mine; and kist agen;
I had the rich Idea, in my braine
Soe livelie fitt, soe prest to entertaine
My willing Quill; and had my Pen soe neare,
I thought it done; buTwas prevented here;
The harvest of my Time, in which I thought
To reare my liveing Name, now fell to nought.
For busie, how to thawe my Jet to Inke,
It fled my Thought, before I ought could thinke;
That Peice, for which I thought from future Times
T' have gained whole Hecatombes, of Tribute Rhimes,
Lost in a Cloud, I know not how, nor where;
Nor doth a Member of that forme appeare.
Starrs inauspicious, never knew to Crosse
Our prosperous Muses, with a greater Losse;
When manie years hence, I this verse shall read,
'Twill Splitt my soule, with greife; when I am dead,
Deprived Posteritie, shall teare this Sheet,
Distracted in the Fate, to thinke how great
A flame might once have warm'd em. I could teare
A Rheme to Atomes; and all Quills forsweare
While I repeat it; had the greedie Flame
Snatcht all my Trifles, and but left my Name,
This Trophie; I had stood above all rage
Of Present Malice, or an ignorant Age;
This glorious fruite! halfe ripened! to be lost
In the Cold bowells, of a greedie Frost
Has raised in me a fire of Rage, to thawe
The Articke Circle, and make void all Lawe
Of winter, to the Russian. I could melt
Those ever Rocks of Ice, which never felt
One ray to warme them; make a Sea to Flow
Within the Continent, of Alpine Snow;
But I am blind in Furie; and transgress
All modest rules; loosing in Emptiness
Of Passion, future Glories; and almost
In Error, has my fantasie more lost
Then late, in Accident. Yet will I Charme
Thy Subtle power, fearing a future harme.
Let Winter dwell, upon the Island Shore
And with his breath, bind Shallow waters ore;
Fetter, in Guiues of Christall, the full Streams
Of Tanais, or Volgha; whilst our Thames
Runs with untroubled waters, in a Cleare
And even Course; thou hast noe Title here.
Why on my Standish, Tirant, didst-thou fall?
Thou hast not right, to freeze an Urinall:
Doth not the bright-haird God, in glorie Shine,
(Throughout this Ile? to crush all Power of thine?)
Phebus assistant to all brave designe!
Ah then, why did he suffer this of mine
To perish? sure Hee is not as of old
(When witt Succeeded) antique Poets told
Soe much a freind, unto the harmonie
Of numbers, and true ayme of Poesie;
Either he never was, or he has lost
Latelie, the Soveraigntie, which they All boast;
Or if he be the Nourisher, of witt,
Why would he suffer Ice, to smother it?
Noe; Phebus is my foe; or he has Swore,
Since Jonson Dyed, t' allow his Heirs noe more.
I know not what to Judge; but if I live
Ile trye, this Fancie Fled, how to revive.