The lives of the most famous English poets, or, The honour of Parnassus in a brief essay of the works and writings of above two hundred of them, from the time of K. William the Conqueror to the reign of His present Majesty, King James II / written by William Winstanley, author of The English worthies ...

HELICONIAN DEW.

The difficult Trifle (saith one) is rather well endeavoured, than exactly performed▪ More happy were those Wits, who descanted on him and his works in Verse, although so eminent a Poet was never interred with fewer Elegies than he; for which we may assign two Reasons, One that at that time the best Fancies of the Royal Party were in restraint, so that we may in part think their Muses confin'd, as well as their Bodies. Secondly, not to do it to the heighth, were in a manner to dis∣praise him. However I shall adventure to give you an instance in two, whereof the first of Mr. Edward Martin of London.

Ye Muses do not me deny; I ever was your Votary. And tell me, seeing you do daign T' inspire and feed the hungry Brain; With what choice Cates? With what choice Face? To Cleaveland's fancy still repair? Fond Man, say they, why do'st thou question thus? Ask rather with what Nectar he feeds us.

The other by Mr. A. B. printed before Mr. Cleve∣land's Works.

Cleaveland again his sacred head doth raise, Even in the dust crown'd with immortal Bayes, Again with verses arm'd that once did fright Lycambe's Daughters from the hated Light, Sets his bold foot on Reformations neck▪ And triumphs o'er the vanquisht Monster Smec; That Hydra whose proud heads did so encrease, That it deserv'd no less an Hercules. This, this is he who in Poetick Rage, With Scorpions lash'd the Madness of the age; Who durst the fashions of the times despise, And be a Wit when all Manking grew wise. When formal Beards at Twenty one were seen, And men grew Old almost as soon as Men: Who in those daies when reason, wit, and sence Were by the Zealots grave Impertinence Ycliped Folly, and in Ve-ri-ty Did savour rankly of Carnality. When each notch'd Prentice might a Poet prove. For warbling through the Nose a Hymn of Love, When sage George Withers and grave William Prin, Himself might for a Poets share put in: Yet then could write with so much art and skill, That Rome might envy his Satyrick Quill; And crabbed Persius his hard lines give ore, And in disdain beat his brown Desk no more. How I admire thee Cleaveland! when I weigh Thy close wrought Sense, and every line survey!

They are not like those things which some com∣pose, Who in a maze of Words the Sense do lose. Who spin one thought into so long a thread, And beat their Wit too thin to make it spread; Till 'tis too fine for our weak eyes to find, And dwindles into Nothing in the end. No; they'r above the Genius of this Age, Each word of thine swells pregnant with a Page. Then why do some Mens nicer ears complain, Of the uneven Harshness of thy strain? Preferring to the vigour of thy Muse Some smooth weak Rhymer, that so gently flowes, That Ladies may his easy strains admire, And melt like Wax before the softning fire. Let such to Women write, you write to Men; We study thee, when we but play with them.