For as eternity has neither past

Nor future, (authors fay) nor first, nor last, But is all inftant, your eternal Mufe

All ages can to any one reduce.

Then why should you, whofe miracle of art Can life at pleasure to the dead impart, Trouble in vain your better-bufy'd head

For fince you have fuch arbitrary power, It were defect in judgment to go lower, Or ftoop to things fo pitifully lewd,

As ufe to take the vulgar latitude.

There's no man fit to read what you have writ, That holds not fome proportion with your wit As light can no way but by light appear,

It is your pardon, Sir, for which my Muse
Thrice humbly thus, in form of paper, fues;
For having felt the dead weight of your wit,
She comes to ask forgiveness, and submit ;
is forry for her faults, and, while I write,
Mourns in the black, does penance in the white :
But fuch is her belief in your just candour,
She hopes you will not fo misunderstand her,
To wreft her harmless meaning to the fenfe
Of filly emulation or offence.

No; your fufficient wit does ftill declare
Itfelf too amply, they are mad that dare
So vain and fenfelefs a prefumption own,
To yoke your vaft parts in comparison :
And yet you might have thought upon a way
'T' inftruct us how you'd have us to obey,
And not command our praises, and then blame
All that's too great or little for your fame :
For who could choose but err, without fome trick
To take your elevation to a nick?
As he that was defir'd, upon occafion,
To make the Mayor of London an oration,
Defir'd his Lordship's favour, that he might
Take measure of his mouth, to fit it right;
So, had you fent a fcantling of your wit,
You might have blam'd us if it did not fit;
But 'tis not just t' impofe, and then cry down
All that's unequal to your huge renown;
For he that writes below your vaft defert,
Betrays his own, and not your want of art.
Praife, like a robe of ftate, fhould not fit clofe
To th' perfon 'tis made for, but wide and loofe;
Derives its comelinefs from b'ing unfit,
And fuch have been our praifes of your wit,

Which is fo extraordinary, no height
Of fancy but your own can do it right:
Witness thofe glorious poems you have writ
With equal judgment, learning, art, and wit,
And thofe ftupendous difcoveries

You've lately made of wonders in the fkies;
For who, but from yourself, did ever hear
The fphere of atoms was the atmosphere?
Who ever fhut thofe ftragglers in a room,
Or put a circle about vacuum?

What should confine thofe undetermin'd crowdsj
And yet extend no further than the clouds?
Who ever could have thought, but you alone,
A fign and an afcendant were ali one,
Or how 'tis poflible the moon fhould shroud
Her face, to peep at Mars behind a cloud,
Since clouds below are fo far diftant plac'd,
They cannot hinder her from b'ing barefac'd?
Who ever did a language fo enrich,
To fcorn all little particles of fpeech?
For though they make the fenfe clear, yet they're
To be a fcurvy hindrance to the found;
[found
Therefore you wifely fcorn your style to humble,
Or for the fenfe's fake to wave the rumble,
Had Homer known this art, he 'ad ne'er been fain
To ufe fo many particles in vain,
That to no purpote ferve, but (as he haps
To want a fyllable) to fill up gaps.
You justly coin new verbs, to pay for those
Which in conftruction you o'eriee and lofe;
And by this art do Prifcian no wrong
When you break 's head, for 'tis as broad as long.
Thefe are your own difcoveries, which none
But fuch a Mufe as your's could hit upon,

That can, în spite of laws of art, or rules,
Make things more intricate than all the fchools:
For what have laws of art to do with you,

More than the laws with honeft men and true?
He that's a prince in poetry should strive
To cry 'em down by his prerogative,
And not fubmit to that which has no force
But o'er delinquents and inferiors.

Your poems will endure to be well try'd

I' th' fire, like gold, and come forth purify'd;
Can only to eternity pretend,

For they were never writ to any end.
All other books bear an uncertain rate,

But thofe you write are always fold by weight;
Each word and fyllable brought to the scale,
And valu'd to a fcruple in the fale.

Has an abfterfive virtue to make clean
Whatever nature made in man obfcene.
Boys find, b' experiment, no paper-kite,
Without your verfe, can make a noble flight.
It keeps our fpice and aromatics fweet;
In Paris they perfume their rooms with it:
For burning but one leaf of your's, they lay,
Drives all their ftinks and naftiness away.
Cooks keep their pies from burning with your wit.
Their pigs and geefe from scorching on the fpt;
And vintners find their wines are ne'er the weź,
When ars’nick's only v⋅rapp'd up in the verse.
Thefe are the great performances that raife
Your mighty parts above all reach of praite,
And give us only leave t' admire your worth,
For no man, but yourself, can fet it forth,

Fame is the echo, and her voice your own.

SIR, you've outliv'd fo defperate a fit
As none could do but an immortal wit;
Had your's been lefs, all helps had been in vain,
And thrown away, though on a lefs fick brain;
But you were so far from receiving hurt,
You grew improv'd, and much the better for't.
As when th' Arabian bird does facrifice,
And burn himself in his own country's fpice,
A maggot firft breeds in his pregnant un,
Which after does to a young phoenix turn:
So your hot brain, burnt in its native fire,
Did life renew'd, and vig'rous youta acquire;
And with to much advantage, fome have gueft,
Your afterwit is like to be yotir best,
And now expect far greater matters of ye
Than the bought Cooper's Hill, or borrow'd
Sophy;

Such as your Tully lutely drefs'd in verse,
Like thofe he made himself, or not much worse;
And Seneca's dry fand, unmix'd with lime,
Such as you cheat the King with, botch'd in rhyme.
Nor were your morals leís improv'd, all pride,
And native infolence, quite laid afide :

And that ungovern'd outrage, that was wont
All, that they durft with fafety, to affront.
No China cupboard rudely overthrown,
Nor Lady tipp'd, by b'ing accofted, down;

No poet jeer'd, for fcribbling amifs,
With verfes forty times more lewd than his
Nor did your crutch give battle to your doos,
And hold it out, where you had built a fconce;
Nor furioufly laid orangewench aboard,
For afking what in fruit and love you 'ad feor'd;
But all civility and complaifance,
More than you ever us'd before or since.
Befide, you never over-reach'd the King
One farthing, all the while, in reckoning,
Nor brought in alte account, with little tricks
Of paffing broken rubbish for whole bricks;
Falfe muftering of workmen by the day,
Deduction out of wages, and dead pay
For those that never liv d; all which did come,
By thrifty management, to no fmall fam.
You pull'd no lodgings down, to build them work
Nor repair'd others, to repair your purse,
As you were wont, till all you built appear'd
Like that Amphion with his fiddle rear'd:
For had the ftones (like his) charm'd by your
Built up themselves, they could not have dar

worfe:

And fure, when first you ventur'd to furvey, You did defign to do't no other way.

All this was done before thofe days began In which you were a wife and happy man:

On purpose to deftroy all wit and fenfe,
As th' other did all law and confcience;
No better than the laws of British plays,
Confirm'd in th' ancient good King Howell's days,
Who made a general council regulate
Men's catching women by the-you know what,
And fet in the rubric at what time

It fhould be counted legal, when a crime,
Declare when 'twas, and when 'twas not a fin,
And on what days it went out or came in.
An English poet fhould be try'd b' his peers,
And not by pedants and philofophers,
Incompetent to judge poetic fury,
As butchers are forbid to be of a jury;
Belides the moft intolerable wrong

To try their matters in a foreign tongue,
By foreign jurymen, like Sophocles,
Or Tales falfer than Euripides;
When not an English native dares appear
To be a witnefs for the prifoner;

When all the laws they ufe t' arraign and try
The innocent and wrong'd delinquent by,

Were made b' a foreign lawyer, and his pupil,
To put an end to all poetic fcruples,
And by th' advice of virtuofi Tufcans,
Determin'd all the doubts of focks and buskins;
Gave judgment on all paft and future plays,
As is apparent by Speroni's cafe,
Which Lope Vega firft began to fteal,
And after him the French filou Corneille;
And fince our English plagiaries nim,
And steal their fat-fet criticifms from him,
And by an action falfely laid of Trover,
The lumber for their proper goods recover;
Enough to furnish all the lewd impeachers
Of witty Beaumont's poetry, and Fletchers,
Who for a few mifprifions of wit,

Are charg'd by thofe who ten times worfe commit;
And for misjudging fome unhappy scenes,
Are cenfur'd for 't with more unlucky fense;
When all their worst miscarriages delight,

And pleate more than the best that pedants write.

d

SIR, while fo many nations ftrive to pay
The tribute of their glories to this day,
That gave them earnest of so great a fum
Of glory (from your future acts) to come,
And which you have discharg'd at such a rate,
That all fucceeding times muft celebrate,
We, that fubfift by your bright influence,
And have no life but what we own from thence,
Come humbly to present you, our own way,
With all we have, (befide our hearts) a play.
But as devouteft men can pay no more
To deities than what they gave before,
We bring you only what your great commands
Did refcue for us from engroffing hands,
That would have taken our adminiftration
Of all departed poets' goods i' the nation;
Or, like to lords of manors, feiz'd all plays
That come within their reach, as wefts and ftrays,

And claim'd a forfeiture of all paft wit,
But that your justice put a stop to it.
'Twas well for us, who elfe must have been ghẻ
T' admit of all who now write new and bad;
For ftill the wickeder fome authors write,
Others to write worse are encourag'd by 't;
And though those fierce inquifitors of wit,
The critics, fpare no flesh that ever writ,
But just as toothdraw'rs find, among the rout,
Their own teeth work in pulling others out,
So they, decrying all of ali that write,
Think to erect a trade of judging by't.
Small poetry, like other herefies,
By being perfecuted multiplies;

But here they're like to fail of all pretence;
For he that writ this play is dead long fince,
And not within their power; for bears are faid
To fpare thofe that lie ftill and feem but dead

A BEARD is but the vizard of a face,
That Nature orders for no other place;
The fringe and taffel of a countenance,
That hides his perfon from another man's,
And, like the Roman habits of their youth,
Is never worn until his perfect growth;
A privilege no other creature has,
To wear a nat'ral mafk upon his face,
That fhifts i's likeness ev'ry day he wears,
To fit fome other perfons' characters,
And by its own mytology implies,
That men were born to live in fome difguife.
This fatisfy'd a rev'rend man, that clear'd
His difagreeing confcience by his Beard.
He 'ad been preferr'd i' th' army, when the church
Was taken with a Why not? in the lurch;

Philip Nye was educated at Oxford, firft in BrafenRole College, and afterwards in Magd. Hall, where, under the influence of a Puritanical tube, he received the first tinatare of fedition and difguft to our ecclefiaftical eftablithinent. After taking his degrees he went into orders, but foon left England to go and relide in Holland, where he was not very likely to fetfen thofe prejudices which he had already imbibed. In the year 1640 he returned home, be

came a furious Prefbyterian, and a zealous tickler for the Parliament, and was thought confiderable enough, in his way, to be fent by his party, into Scorland, to encourage an fpiric up the caule of the Covenant, in defence of which he writ feveral pamphlets. When the independents, however, began to have the afcendant, and power and profit rau in that channel, he faced about, and became a ftrenuous preacher on that fide; and in this fituation he was when he tell under the lath of But er's lature.

When primate, metropolitan, and prelates,
Were turn'd to officers of horse, and zealots,
From whom he held the moft pluralities
Of contributions, donatives, and fal'ries;
Was held the chiefeft of thofe fp'ritual trumpets,
That founded charges to their fierceft combats,
But in the defperateft of defeats

Had never blown as opportune retreats,
Until the Synod order'd his departure
To London, from his caterwauling quarter,
To fit among 'em, as he had been chofen,
And pafs or null things at his own dispofinge;
Could clap up fouls in limbo with a vote,
And for their fees dicharge and let them out,
Which made fome grandees bribe him with the
Of holding forth upon Thanksgiving-days, [place
Whither the Members, two and two abreaft,
March'd to take in the spoils of all—the feast,
But by the way repeated the oh-hones
Of his wild Irish and chromatic tones:
His frequent and pathetic hums and haws,
He practis'd only t' animate the Cause,
With which the Sifters were fo prepoffeft,
They could remember nothing of the reft.

He thought upon it, and refolv'd to put
His Beard into as wonderful a cut,
And, for the further fervice of the women,
'T' abate the rigidnefs of his opinion;

Rrij