Poems, and fancies written by the Right Honourable, the Lady Margaret Newcastle.

I Know, those that are strict and nice about Phrase, and the pla∣cing of words, will carp at my Booke: for I have not set my words in such order, as those which write elegant Prose. But I must confesse ingenuously, my shallow wit could not tell how to order it to the best advantage; besides, I found it difficult, to get so many Rhythmes, as to joyn the sense of the Subject: and by reason I could not attaine to both, I rather chose to leave the Elegance of words, then to obstruct the sense of the matter. For my desire was to make my conceit easie to the understanding, though my 〈◊〉〈◊〉 were not so fluent to the eare. Againe, they will finde fault with the Numbers; for I was forc'd to fewer or more, to bring in the sense of my Fancies. All I can say for my selfe is, that Poetry consists not so much in Number, Words, and Phrase, as in Fancy. Thirdly, they will finde fault at the Subject; saying, it is neither materiall, nor usefull for the Soule, or Body. To this I answer, My intention was, not to teach Arts, nor Sciences, nor to instruct in Divinity, but to passe away idle Time; and thought Time might be better 〈◊〉〈◊〉: yet 'tis oft spent worse amongst many in the world.

I Language want, to dresse my Fancies in, The Haire's uncurl'd, the Garments loose, and thin; Had they but Silver Lace to make them gay, Would be more courted then in poore array. Or had they Art, might make a better show; But they are plaine, yet cleanly doe they goe. The world in Bravery doth take delight, And glistering Shews doe more attract the sight; And every one doth honour a rich Hood, As if the outside made the inside good. And every one doth how, and give the place, Not for the Mans sake, but the Silver Lace. Let me intreat in my poore Bookes behalfe, That all may not adore the Golden Calf. Consider pray, Gold hath no life therein, And Life in Nature is the richest thing. So Fancy is the Soul in Poetrie, And if not good, a Poem ill must be.

Be just, let Fancy have the upper place, And then my Verses may perchance finde grace. If flattering Language all the Passions rule, Then Sense, I feare, will be a meere dull Foole.

THe worst Fate Bookes have, when they are once read, They're laid aside, forgotten like the Dead: Under a heap of dust they buried lye, Within a vault of some small Library. But Spiders they, for honour of that Art Of Spinning, which by Nature they were taught; Since Men doe spin their Writings from the Braine, Striving to make a lasting Web of Fame, Of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 thin, high Altars doe they raise, There offer Flyes, as sacrifice of praise.

WHen that a Book doth from the Presse come new, All buyes, or borrows it, this Book to view: Not out of love of Learning, or of wit, But to finde Faults, that they may censure it. Were there no Faults for to be found therein, As few there are, but doe erre in some thing; Yet Malice with her ranckled Spleen, and spight, Will at the Time, or Print, or Binding bite. Like Devils, when they cannot good soules get, Then on their Bodies they their 〈◊〉〈◊〉 set.

SIr Charles into my chamber coming in, When I was writing of my Fairy Queen; I pray, said he, when Queen Mab you doe see, Present my service to her Majesty: And tell her, I have heard Fames loud report, Both of her Beauty, and her stately Court. When I Queen Mab within my Fancy view'd, My Thoughts bow'd low, fearing I should be rude; Kissing her Garment thin, which Fancy made, Kneeling upon a Thought, like one that pray'd;

In whispers soft I did present His humble service, which in mirth was sent. Thus by imagination I have been In Fairy Court, and seen the Fairy Queen. For why, imagination runs about In every place, yet none can trace it out.

A Poet I am neither borne, nor bred, But to a witty Poet married: Whose Braine is Fresh, and Pleasant, as the Spring, Where Fancies grow, and where the Muses sing. There oft I leane my Head, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 harke, To heare his words, and all his Fancies mark; And from that Garden Flowers of Fancies take, Whereof a Posie up in Verse I make. Thus I, that have no Garden of mine owne, There gather Flowers that are newly blowne.

REader, I have a little Tract of Philosophicall Fancies in Prose, which will not be long before it appear in the world.

FINIS.