Naps upon Parnassus. A sleepy muse nipt and pincht, though not awakened such voluntary and jovial copies of verses, as were lately receiv'd from some of the wits of the universities, in a frolick, dedicated to Gondibert's mistress by Captain Jones and others. Whereunto is added from demonstration of the authors prosaick excellency's, his epistle to one of the universities, with the answer; together with two satyrical characters of his own, of a temporizer, and an antiquary, with marginal notes by a friend to the reader. Vide Jones his legend, drink sack and gunpowder, and so fall to't.

Naps upon Parnassus.

Ʋpon the Infernal Shades of the Authors Poems: or, The hooded Hawk.

ROom, room now for a lusty Poet, That writes as high as any I knew yet, What's Homer but a spewing Dog, Who writes a fight 'twixt Mouse and Frog? Of stout Achilles, and of Hector, Which of them should be the Victor? And yet forsooth This Fellow must (With all his Iliads too) be thrust Into a Nutshel. A great knack! Our Poet, and's Books, into a Sack Can hardly crowded be, and yet If you will look on's Sense and Wit, 'Tis easie, and Ile make no bones To put them in two Cherry-stones.

(1)

Then come along Boyes, Valiant, and strong Boyes, For here's a Poet I tell ye That Naps on Parnassus And (ô Heavens bless us) Takes Deep-sleeps too out of Helicon.

(2)

Avaunt then poor Virgil, Thou ne're drank'st a pure Gill Of Sack, to refine thy sconce: Thou stol'st all from Homer, And rod'st on a low Mare, Instead of Pegasus, for th'nonce.

3.

Let Martial be hang'd, For Ile swear I'le be bang'd, If he makes me ought else but sleepy; He's onely at last For a brideling cast, And his Wit lies at th' end of his Epigrams.

4.

Then for Ovid, Why? was not his Love hid In's Book of Toyes, call'd Amorum: Indeed there he wrote madly, But in's Tristium sadly; Our Poet's th' Apollo virorum.

5.

And then Flaccus Horace, He was but a sowr-ass, And good for nothing but Lyricks: There's but One to be found In all English ground Writes as well; who is hight Robert Herick.

6.

Our Author's much better, In every letter Then Robin, and Horace Flaccus: He is called Samuel, Who ends well, and began well; And if we'r not glad He can make us.

Come forth then great Poetique Imp, Make not the Muses all to pimp, Whilst thou with one of them do'st lie, Making her 'crease and multiply,

Hoping that they too shall come after, Thou mak'st the rest their teeth to water. And hope the like sport that their Sister Enjoy'd by thee, when e'rst thou kist her. Thou'rt right my friend, and I've been told, Thou alwayes hadst a Muse in hold: And like Cock Hen thou wouldst her tread, * 1.1 Making thy Verses still in Bed. No wonder thou so 'obscure dost write, Thou form'dst thy Verses all in th' Night. Thou wer't up with th' Lamb, & down with th' Lark, And onely lov'st Dealing in the Dark. I love thee for it.—Whip Sir Davy. I now have done.—I marry have I.

Incerti Authoris.

Ʋpon the Incomparable, and Inimitable Author, and his obscure Poems.

I'm not o'th' race of Poets, nor e're made A Verse, without the help of Pump, or Spade. And yet (so sweet is Fame! and to be big Of Glory!) that rather then dye; I'le dig, And labour for a Verse, (not You to praise, Too great a task!) But mine own name to raise: That my foul Beast may be kept in your Ark, My Joan live with your Lady in the Dark. Give me a prospect where a towring Hill, Soar's higher then ever did the Eagles Quill;

On whose bald-pate still undisturbed sit Old Characters, that Adam's Grandsire writ; So high, so wondrous high, that th' light o'th' Sun N'ere top's it, till the Day is neer half done: And then a Cave so deep, that who so dives To the' bottom, e're he reach it spend nine lives. Dark as Cimmerian Cells; horrid with Rocks, Wreath'd into one another like Els's-locks: A lovely sight which more delight contains, Then th' confus'd of the Plains: All here are at a Gaze; none pass it by Regardless; it bids stand to every eye. Here men go softly, who (as if they'd fain Be rid on't) ride a gallop o're the Plain. Such is thy Book!—In it we plainly see All the Dimensions of Poetry. Prometheus-like, sometimes thou do'st aspire, And warm'st thy Mule; at the Celestiall Fire; And then thou usest (which let none despise) Kitchin Similitudes on thy Mother's * 1.2 Eyes. I know some Criticks say thou'rt Hard enough, But 'tis a sign of Lasting to be tough. I read a Verse of thine, then make an halt, (For though I taste it not, I'm sure ther's Salt:) And study for the meaning; and am vext; I finde; cry 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉: and read the next. It is (let none for Recreation look) A very study t'understand thy Book. Plainness is Russick, Thou art clear from that, Who sayes a Poets Plain, sayes he is Flat.

W. P. A. M. W. C. Oxon.

To his Ingenuous Friend, the unknown Author of the following Poems.

COme forth at last, and enter on the stage, Great Soul of Poesie, that this purblind Age, May have the film peel'd off their Eyes, and see How Thou do'st riot in obscurity: In Thy abyss they'l dive, and grope to finde, How Thy strong Wit, and Sense is so combin'd; And when they've grovell'd a long time in vain, Will say (because they'r blinde) Thou art not Plain. Thus ignorant men will snarle at Thee; and why? Because they'r clogg'd with earth, & can't soar high; Their Eyes are lin'd with dimness, can't behold, How Thou in pretty turnings dost infold Thy self and Verse: How Thou dost fancy screw Into each Line, and mak'st ev'n * 1.3 Old seem new; Wracking each word, and syllable for sense, And tortring both to make an Eloquence. Thus the un-usefull Grape, when crusht and prest, Doth lavish out a Liquor of the best: And Camomil, until it bruised be Blows not out any sprightful fragrancy: How many stroaks doth the rough marble bear, Before it can be polisht trim and fair? What would men say if Poets onely should Be tyed to others's sense of words? not mould A meaning of their own; they must ascend Above the vulgar reach; their fancies blend Into a wonder; make Confusion seem As if it were distinct: their Brains must teem

With darkest issues, lest with too much light, They dazzle the poor Common people's sight. We most admire the Sun when he's bereav'd Of lustre, wrapt in an Eclipse: Deceiv'd Of all his Beams: when he recruits again His former Rayes; we say, He's then too plain. Ovid in his best Poem, let's his Muse Begin first with a Chaos, most confuse. The Gods when they descended from the Skies, With Bodies vell'd their shining Deities. The thundring voice of heaven (which speaks so loud) Is both begot, and speaks too in a cloud. The clear still Streams discover to the eye, What filth and dirt do in the Bottom lie; When th' muddy boistrous Sea keeps from our view More Treasuries then mortals ever knew. Homer the Prince of Poets was Dark 'cause blinde, Our Author's like him, yet is more calcin'd. We praise Propertius. Juvenal, Tibullus, Horatius, Flaccus, Lucan, and Catullus, Above all other petty Ballad-mongers, Who are so lean, they'l scarce suffice our hungers: But Ile forbear: who so shall read thy Book, Will think a Sybil pen'd it, and will look For some t'interpret it: thus then thou'lt puzzle Thy Readers, 'cause thy Fancies thou do it muzzle. I'le say but this: (Others have prais'd thee more, and better) Thou writ'st in Characters, though with a common Letter.

S. T. A. M. W. C. Oxon.

To the Abstruse Authour on his Night-work Poems.

1

TO praise Thy Wit I cannot hope, It is so dark, I ne're shall grope It out, but by Ariadne's Rope.

2.

That I am covetous don't think, For to illuminate Thy Ink I'le six pence give to Boy with link

3.

In London sure thou couldst not scape, On Ears, and Purse hee'd ma••e a rape, Who in Lord Majors name, doth gape

4

And cry, Your Lanthorn, and your Light. Thy Verses make it more then night, Like Ghosts Thy Fancies us afright.

5.

As when rich Wines within a Cellar's* 1.4 Dark vaulted womb are welcome dwellers, Men stagger, though they are but smellers:

6.

Thy subtle Wit so cheats our eyes, None can discover where it lies, And yet our Brains it doth surprize.

7.

Let us have leave (Heroick Bard) To ask Thee why Thou writ'st so hard? None wear their Cloathes all welt and gard.

8.

Some one conceipt costs us a week, The easiest asks of Dayes a Gleek: Thou play'st with us at Hide and Seek.

9.

We are your friends, you can't do less But send them quickly to the Press, Their meaning then they will confess.

10.

And then (if Cookes do not bespeak 'um) When I am big with * 1.5 Flavum Graecum, Thy Book shall be my Vade Mecum.

* 1.6Ʋ. M.

On Mr. Somebody's Poeticall Naps upon Parnassus.

THe Indians with Mundungo fumigate Their brains, and all their senses opiate, To comprehend their Gods: so must I make My self dead drunk with Helicon, and take A Nap upon Parnassus, to admit Thy Muses, and dark Oracles of wit; For thy obscure, dark foggy, misty strains Can't be receiv'd but in as cloudy brains. For they who such sublimities dispense, Must finde out Souls free from the miste of sense,

And cataract of reason, which must be (Like Him who put out's eyes that He might see.) As dark as is Thy Book: for why i'th Night, Owles (which are blinde by Day) have quickest sight. Old Homer, Virgil, Lucan, and Catullus, Pass for good Poet, as the Ancients tell us; So Ovid, Claudian, Juvenal, and Martial, Yet they compar'd with Thee'r not worth a fart all. For they had One, and that no venial crime, That they were understood by th'men o'th'time: And what's more mean than That, which fault, if any, Makes * 1.7Parker's Poems vend but for a Penny. And Katharine Stubbs for three pence, when the women Wo'nt grudge to pay a Crown for Jacob Behmen. 'Tis vulgar to be clear. 'Tis but a Quibble To write a verse that is intelligible. But Thy judicious Muse shun's this Offence, And scorns the pedantry of writing Sense. Thine are true Heights, for Thine invention Confounds the Readers reason, and Thine own, Thou (like to Him that shews the famous Sight Of Bell & the Dragon) e're thou shew'st mak'st night. The Heav'ns, by men that they so long have been, Ador'd, ow't to the Clouds that are between: So 'tis Thy Soot, and Smoak, makes us admire Th' internal Flame, of thy Poetick Fire. As Nature's Secret parts do not excite So much when all go naked; so Thy wit, If naked, had not tempted half so hotly, As now in Peticoat and wastecoat Motly.

Through things transparent we dispatch our sight, But gaze on those which terminate our light: And while we view dark Objects, we ne're care To take accompt of the perspicuous Air: So had Thy Poetry transparent been, We had in it no sense, no phansie seen; But now 'tis so obscure, that twon't transmit Our Rayes, we may suspect both Sense and Wit.

G. C. M. A. SOAC. Oxon.

Sonetto in Lode del Autore. Or in plain English, A Jews Letter in Ink to commend our Negro.

DIro del Bianco pie che l'herb 'inflora? O Della Bianca man che l'arboscelli Impera, inostra e'ndora? O * 1.8 Del bel vis' humano, humile e piano? O Delle Dolc' Angeliche Parole? Questi l'alba ne rec' e quell'il sole; Quelle l'eterno ciel, co'centi Tuoi; Ma Quant' al Tuo Tacer, che non m'annoi.

Alexandro Amidei Fiorentino.

Drollery.

Upon the most Illustrious, (though most Ob∣scure, Dark, Black, Misty, Cloudy Poems of the Authour: Or the Aquila in Nubibus.

EVery * 1.9 thing would live, Cuckows, and Owles, Would fly abroad, as well as other Fowles; And sometimes whoop and screetch, and tear their throats, With their dire voice, and think them Angels notes. * 1.10 Rise then, take wing (fledg'd Poet) let men know If these Birds shew their heads, much more mayest Thou. I cannot praise Thy Works not worth a fart. What shall I speak, what shall I say Thou art? Such Metaphysicks Thou writ'st as transcends Our low, if not thine own Intelligence. Yet, as they say the greater Prophets, when Fully wrapt up with Revelations, then Spake things they understood not, and yet are Canonicall: Thou art still good, and rare. Give me a Poet wrapt in a thick Cloud, Thunder without Lightning, one whose dark, loud Voice disdains Flashes, and 's enough to startle Our proudest Wits, from Head even to the * 1.11 Ankle: Thou imitat'st the World, whose first (we read) Was a spiss Chaos, and untempered.〈2+ pages missing〉〈2+ pages missing〉

Thou whor'st Obscurity like Ixion Cling'st to a Cloud, and gender'st thereupon. A Race of Centaures, such hard-headed Monsters, As neither mine, nor thy brain but misconsters. A Scholars Gown should be Dark and Divines Put on black Caps; even so do all Thy Rimes. Black Bags help Beauty, naked things show Wist. And Phoebus shews twice bigger through a Mist. The Sun we never gaze so much upon, As when a black Eclipse is thrown thereon. Keep then thy Sense. The Earth doth onely show Her Common Stones, * 1.12 which many times do throw Us down: she shows us trifling grass, that's brave, The twinkling of an eye; then findes a grave: She hides her treasure, and will sooner feel Her Bowels ripe, then show her Gold and Steel. The deepest Streams are dark, and glide along With a smooth, gentle motion; while the throng Of shallow waters brooking no such stay, Disclose their bottoms, murmuring away. In brief Thou art our Oracle, dark, and much Reserv'd, but do not cease, That should be Such. Let others call for Sun-shine, and Day-light, Our Rest is from Thy Shadow, and Thy Night. But I have done: onely I'le tell the Readers, One line of Thine hath more then all thy Leaders, Ovid, and Virgil, Homer, and the rest, Who spake but seldom Wit, and good at best: Whose thrift of Brains was such, they needs must know What, and to whom, how much, nay when, and how▪

Thy Lines are liberal, they have a Mine Of * 1.13 lofty Metaphors, else they'r not Thine. Thy Muse condense's Wit, which others beat, And rarifie out into many a sheet. Thine's Gold in th' Ore, others but in a Leaf, In theirs we Glean, from Thee each plucks a Sheaf. Thou art no Ape of others: never riflest Old thred-bare Poets: for thou never triflest. Homer's spew makes Thee drunk: 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 Empties Thy Maw more then e're did Good Friday. Thou scorn'st to imitate, or read; such helps May serve for squemish Brains, and stupid Whelps, Whose theeving hands (yet not Mercuriall) pick Here a line, and there a word; some one stick Or two, out of a Neighbours Hedge, and then Faggot them for next town, and are fine men. But 'tis not so with Thee: O mighty Stock! Thy Head hews all out of its own great Block, Ʋnletter'd Scholar! that weav'st * 1.14 all, and some From Thy own fruitful Bowels, and vast womb. Poets are born so, not made: and Thou art Of Poets a Naturall, and not by Art.

G. I. M. A. W. C. Oxon.

Carmen Proverbiale Exclamatorium in laudem Authoris. Pars prior

O Decus Anglorum! Vates famose tuorum, Cujus pars nona facit Oxen-ford Helecona. Saepe ego Te vidi, fecisti me quoque ride- re, cum dixisti certe nil, sed tacuisti: At loqueris jam nunc, & rideo plus ego quam tunc. Cùm videam Librum (qui non sensit modò cri∣brum) Et Carmen nigrum, sed & ingenium neque pi∣grum; Non quòd ego sperno Librum quem abs lumine cerno, (Estque Liber clarus) est Author, & undique ra∣rus) Haec ratio non est quià rideo, my meaning's * 1.15 honest. Carminis ô Fulchrum! spernit tua Musa sepul∣chrum! Naviget Aethiopas inter Tuus (ô Bone) linter, Quis{que} ibi amat * 1.16 c'lorem libri, & monstrabit amo∣rem. Tu bonus, & magnus, & candidus, ut niger agnus Est pedibus fama tua fortior omni Dama! O digne! O docte! O nigrior ipsâ nocte! Omnibus ô Pastime! O vates!

Sic exclamavit. T. F. nuper N. C. Oxon. Soc.

The second Part in the Authours Language,

Being a Verse Panegyrick in Praise of the Author's transcendently delicious, Poeticall dainties, in∣clos'd in the * 1.17 Wicker-Basket of his Critique Poems.

SIR.

IN that small inch of time I stole, to look On th'abstruse Depths of Your Mysterious Book; Heav'ns bless mine eye-sight! what strains did I see? What Steropegeretick Poetry! What Hieroglyphick words? what Riddles? all In Letters more then Cabalisticall. Perhaps our fingers may Your Verses scan, But all our Noddles understand them can No more, then read that Dung-fork't Pot-hook's Hand, Which in Queens Colledge Library doth stand. The cutting Hanger of your Wit I can't see, For that same Scabberd that conceals yours Fancy▪ Thus a black velvet Casket hides a Jewel, And a dark Wood-house wholesome winter fuel; Thus John Tredeskin starves our greedy eyes, By boxing up his new found Rarities. Thus were Philosophers content to be Renown'd, and famous in Obscurity.

We fear Actaeons horns dare not look on, When you do * 1.18 scowr your skin in Helicon. We cannot (Lynceus-like) see through the wall Of your strong mortred Poems, nor can all The small shot of our Brains make one hole in The Bulwark of your Book, that Fort to win. Open your meanings Door: ô do not lock it! Undoe the Buttons of your smaller Pocket; And charitably spend those Angels there; Let them enrich, and actuate our Sphere: Take off our Bongraces, and shine upon us, Though your resplendent Beams should chance to O were your verses stol'n, that so we might (tan us.) Hope in good time to see them come to light! But felt I not a strange Poetick heat Glowing therein (which reading makes me sweat) Vulcan should take 'um, and I'de not exempt 'um, Because they be things.—Quibus lumen ademptum. I thought to have commended something there, But all exceeds my commendations far: I hope some Wit, when he your honour hears, Will praise your Mothers Eyes Turpentine tears: For my part, I can but stand still, and stare, And cry O wondrous! strange! profound! and rare! Vast wits must fathom you, better then thus; You merit more then all they:—As for us, The Beetles of our Rhymes shall drive full fast in The wedges of your worth to everlastin. * 1.19

T F. lately F. N. C. Oxon.

A Son amice, l' Autheur de cette Liure sur son Obscuritie.

N'Import (grand Poete) Si tes vers sont obscures; C'est estre imperfecte, Si serroient toutes pures.

L' estime cest à choses Qui sont pluis difficiles; L' espine fait les roses Non paroistre viles.

Ʋpon the same.

WHat means thy Pegasus to take this flight? Thy Book is forth, but when wil't come to light Are the nine Girles recluse? and art thou he Wilt turn Parnassus to a Nunnery? 'Twas alwayes Mountainous; but, by what spell Hast thou now made it inaccessible? Fountains are clear; but if Thou thus go on, Thou'lt make a Puddle of thy Helicon. Yet Darkness is thy vertue; were thy sense But legible to our intelligence; We might prophane thy fancy, or despise; Thus Persians hide their King from vulgar eyes, They that entail a game at Chess upon Their families to time's succession,

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Making each Pawn out-live an Army; see The Bishops move but once a Jubilee; And Check ne're comes without a Comet, they Might take thy Book to task instead of play. Were Archimedes living; ten to one, He'd make each Verse a Proposition; And pore as long upon't; but I dare say Without all hopes of crying 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 Might none be Judges of thy Wit, but such As understand it, t'will abide the touch. I me sure we know it not: then who can blame us To bring Thee in, onely our * 1.20 Ignoramus.

H. L. W. C. C.

Ʋpon the Gurmundizing Quagmires, and most Adiaphanous Bogs, of the Author's obnubilated Roundelayes.

THou that dwarft'st mountains into molehill sense With Ell-broad Marrow-bones of Eloquence; Causing thy Eel-skin'd Glasses seem to be But North-wind Blasts of Mahomet's Nunnery. Breath forth great Argos mast into my hand, That I may bob for Whales upon dry land? Send down the Mesenterick Huckle-bone Of Crest-faln Pancakes which do cry and grone, That ovall millstones are like tarbax't Stars, Spher'd so on purpose by Saturn, and eke Mars.

'Tis true indeed Saturn did leave his Miter, To be Sow-gelded by 's God-son Jupiter. What then? should Dunsmore's Bulls fall from the sky? And Cart-ropes into Princes secrets pry? No sure: we mortals then may fall asleep On feather'd Dripping-pans, playing Bo-peep. But that's a work onely befits the Gods, To Weather-cock their Eyes with fishing-rods. Sail then (great Poet!) thither, where the mode is To wear Black-pudding-Points, at th' Antipodes: Rush forth into that Stage; and then it may be Thou'lt Crakanthorp thy Muse with dull Farnaby. Open our eyes with marble pick-tooths, then, To see thy bed-rid Beetles turn to Men: Grinde out thy Verses into meal-mouth'd Rhimes, With Camomil'd Horse-plum-trees of the times. Break out thy Muse's teeth; but be no caitiff, To nickname Lobsters with the case Ablative: Then, we shall see great Whiting mops in shrouds, And Planets bounce Canundrums in the Clouds: Then shall we see thee pass the Gallow Tyburn, Creeping on Carret-tops, and bawl out, I burn, I burn (great Jove)—with that, he staid his pace, And heard a Lady call out thus, with grace; Dame Gargamel bids hye you home to supper, For great * 1.21 Grangowsier's Mule ha's broke his crupper.

T. C. of Q. K. C.

To his ingenuous Friend, the Author, on his imcomparable Poems. Carmen Jocoserium.

WEr't not my friend, the world should know How I could praise thy Works [I trow] Sounding hence to Constantinople, Poetique strains, I'le wage a * 1.22 Noble; But since 'tis so, (Oh! Oh, the pity!) I must laud thee in Obscurity; Making thy Verses this the Better, Because like thine in Word, and Letter. Nor are they therefore to be blam'd, They will be lighter if enflam'd: Never till then, expect a Riddle To be explain'd with * 1.23 faddle fiddle. Such Lines as these were none before, Since the cruel fight of Sir Eglamore. And in a word; that I may end all, Better were never made by * 1.24 Kendall.

Once again.

IF I may guess at Poets in our Land, Thou beat'st them all above, and under hand; Nay under leg too, for thy feet out-run 'um, As far as is from Oxford unto Lon'on: Nay, give them half in half, thou creepest faster Then Scottish Posts, that in the greatest haste are; Nor in thy Speed alone do lie thy Glories, But thou 'rt so sweet, that done, thou tastest Morish. Who e're (I wiss) did see one, like thee, handy? And Rhymes deliciouser then Sugar candy?

To thee compar'd, our English Poets all stop, And vail their Bonnets, even Shakespear's * 1.25 Falstop. Chaucer the first of all was'nt worth a farthing, Lidgate, and Huntingdon, with Gaffer Harding. Non-sense the Faëry Queen, and Michael Drayton, Like Babel's Balm; or Rhymes of Edward Paiton, Waller, and Turlingham, and brave George Sandys, Beaumont, and Fletcher, Donne, Jeremy Candish, Herbert, and Cleeveland, and all the train noble Are Saints-bells unto thee, and thou great Bow-bell. Ben Johnson 'tis true shew'd us how he could hit Each humour now; and then be out of it; Nor could he alwayes keep his Muse a gallop, With curb, or whip, but sometimes had but small (hope.) Cowly alack's too plain; his Davideis, But fit for boyes to read, like Virgil's Enaeis; And for his Mistress, and his other Poems; Anacreontique, and Pindarique Theams, They have no Method in 'um, and are not worth One pin to kindle fires, and set on hot broth; None like to Thee, but the Writer of ƲRANIA, Or Friar John the Poet of Normannia; With Pagan Fisher, who e'rst made a speech, To shew that he could versifie, and preach; And put it in the News-books too, for all To know, how he was jeer'd in Christs-Church Hall. Thou bee'st a brave Boy, trust me if thou be'nt, The best that ever eat salt fish in Lent; Which makes thy Verses too to be so witty, Because Thou seasonest so well each Ditty.

S. W. W. C. C. Oxon.

An Autoschediastique

To the Ingenuous Authour, on his Poems so Miscellaneous.

CAll not these * 1.26 Miscellaneous Poems; why? What shall we call them then? a Rhapsody. So our Grammarians Homer's Iliads name; And you your self do verifie the same; The difference onely stands in this, that He A Grecian: Poet, You an English bee. We stile Him Father: but when that is done, We must acknowledge you to be his Son: Him Plato (notwithstanding all His Wit) Into his Commonwealth would not admit: We never deem our selves more happy then, When we enjoy the writings of such men. If He were blinde (pardon me what I say) You are so too; yet in another way: So have I seen Dame Justice regent sit With Eyes blind-folded to discern what's fit. Your Eyes were shut, when Verses you did make: (What would you've done if you had been awake?) No wonder then that you are so abstruse, That had to do in darkness with your Muse. What though our Poets sometimes Liars are? Each one in this hath not a common share: Nor doth the formal reason of Poetry Consist in this, that it must be a Lie. What hinders but a man may laugh, and rhime, And speak the truth too at the self same time?

Tears have their Fallacies, but who e're knew A man, a merry Poet, and not true? Legends abundance have I read in Prose, In Verse but onely one Metamorphose: Besides, all do not see the truths that lie Couch't in the bowels of Mythology. You truth have spoken; and withall so plain, That one would think Luoilius come again; And yet your stile is so mysterious, As that of Juvenal, or Persius. Briefly, if any may be said to be An Hieroglyphick Poet, You are He. True are your Eulogies; your Satyrs keen; Sad are your Elogies; your Silvae green. Others have spoken this before; for me, I cannot praise (for wondring) what I see. Philosophers, and Poets best are new, Your Work commends it self, and so 't must You.

N. F. C. W. F. Oxon.

Ʋpon the nebuligerous, tenebricosiform'd Wit, of the Authour, absconded in the nigricated Womb of these Poems.

O! For the cutting knife now of Sow-gelder, To rip thy Womb, and see thy Hans en Kelder. Thy Wit as yet is wrapt in's Secundinae; Which must be launc't, or else we ne're shal find ye.

D'ee think we can see Boy wrapt up in Mantle? For my part, how to do't surely I can't tell. When I thy Verses read, like in's shell Tortoise, Thy Wits in them as Wine in quart is; We can't see either of them until open'd, Which if they be not, they'r not worth a Rope end. Within thy Book I'de ha' thee put a Comment, We may then understand peradventure some on't; Else we shall ne're do't; for now as the case stands, When we but read it, we are put to base stands; And then we thresh, and beat, and keep a quar∣ter; Then rest; then fall again on: just like Carter Upon his Horses poor, tugging, and plucking To get his Wain out, that the Mire is stuck in. VVe sweat, and pull; but cùm omne venit ad omne, The wit within thy Verse we cannot come nigh. VVe may as soon our brains knock out, as knock in Thy mystick sense, 'cause thou writ'st still a fog in. Go on brave Son of Tartar, black as Pluto, Take some work else in hand, and fall a new to Some lofty strain, that may even puzzle Jupiter To understand: then surely thou wilt shut it o're Our weaker mindes; and make the God of Wisdom To fret, and fume, because it was not his doom, To have thy Poets body, and to swallow Such things as hee'l ne're do whil'st hee's Apollo. O all you mighty Poets, whether Hebrew, Greek, Latine, Persian, Caldee, and all the Brewers of Italian verse, French, English, German, If you'r compar'd to Him, you'r all but poor men.

I'le say no more but this, Thou art the man, Sir, That better art then all our former Grandsiers.

Adoniram Bitefig of Utopia.

To his highly esteemed Friend the Authour: on his inspired Poems.

CAst down your Baies (fond Poets) girt his brow, To whom Poetick Raptures homage owe; Whose nobler soul is onely fit to be The standard to all kinde of Poetry. Fancy lay breathless, and that sacred fire Rak'd up in its own ashes did expire. The Fount dri'd up; nor did the Jovial Crew Of Sisters meet, as they were wont to do: Apollo gone Shepheards obtain'd the Spring, And Poets onely went a wool-gathring: But You (my friend) from whose moist brain doth flow A better Helicon then that we owe (To th' Horse's stamp) scorning so long to see The God thus baffled by Obscurity; Regain'd the Fort, and by thy lofty strains, Recover'dst mountain, spring, and neighbring plains.

H. W. W. C. C. Oxon.

Ʋpon the light-footed, though dark Poems of the Au∣thour, so nimble, that they skip out of the Rea∣ders sight, though he hastes never so fast to overtake them.

COme blow the Trumpets, make 'um cry tarrara; And from hence sound as far as is * 1.27 Ferrara; That they may hear the worth there of these Po∣ems, Which were begot in high, and not in low * 1.28 Wembs▪ The Authours brain; when once he did but knock it, Verse would pour out, as water out of Bucket. But first I'le tell the way that he accustom'd To generate his verse▪ His head then was tomb'd Within a Cap of linned, or of woollen, And then within the Bed his feet would pull in. And all day long in it He would lie naked, As hot as though in Oven He were baked: There would He have both cruel Pangs and Tor∣tures, As if He had been pounded in ten Mortars: Just like the Pangs that Women have in travel, When they cry out, Back, Belly, Bones, and Navel; Till at the last He would be unto Bed brought Of Verses few: and all that while He fed not: Soon as He was deliver'd, He would lick 'um Over, and o're, as Bears do Cubs; and stick 'um With pen, and ink on paper. What then? wot ye That these were Verses bad? They were not snotty.

When He had made 'um clean: no they were brave ones, * 1.29 There could not be such made again, though writ with quils of Ravens. Rare we must think them, that are made on bolsters, (A kinde of Cushion that's sold by Ʋpholsters.) For all day long He did consult on pillow, Which made him write in Thunder, not in stile low. If you ask why his Wit is dark. and can't see't, Alwayes He hid himself, and writ i'th' sheet. But I have done, he that shall next come after, May make you serious, we create you laughter.

Dón John Puntaeus. 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.

To the unknown Author.

I That ne're spoke in Verse, am come To adde my Farthing to Thy Sum; What if I strain a Line or so, Thy Verses Feet can make me go, If Leg or Arm be broke: 'tis true He is a Poet, right, true blue; And whether or no I crack my brain, True blue I'me sure can never stain. Nay, his incomparable Verse, Would raise me, were I in my Herse: His Line's so mystique, so profound, No Treasure buried under ground

Were worth so much at comming forth, Wer's Verses sold to half their worth: Some one perhaps may in a puff, Say they are pittifull enough; Or that they would be more meet, To make his Grandam a Winding-sheet? Let such with their Balladian Rhymes Exhaust their oyl, and spend their times To seek for Arts not yet reveal'd; But let His Verses live conceal'd. For I'le avouch't by Jove they'r good, Had we more plenty of the Brood.

R. F.

Ʋpon the Blackness of Darkness: the Authours Poems.

SOme say Mathematicks are hard to know; Some say the School-men are difficult too: One complains of Arabick, 'tis not easie; Another of Coptique, it cannot please me. One sayes that Homer was a blinde Poet, And so was Persius, and Cleaveland: I know it. Some say that Night is Dark, others agen Will swear that dark Rooms are fit for mad men. Let 'um say what they will: I'm sure there's none If thou bee'st but in place, deserves the Throne; The Kingdom of Darkness is all thine own.

Euclide is easie, and Scotus is plain, If eithers compared with thy darker strain, Arabique too; and any other Tongue, May sooner be known then Thy plainest Song. Cleaveland, and Homer, and Persius to boot, Are clear and smooth, if compar'd with thy foot: Yea, the Night it self, or the Grave (as some say) I'th' midst of thy Clouds would be a Milkie-way. Therefore the Proverb lye's, if ever it tell, Dark Rooms are for Mad-men; for in such to dwell, Thy Wit, and Thy Fancy, do hold it full well.

Timothy Tinderbox of Jamaica.

Ʋpon the Author's incomparable Hogan Mogan Mysteries lockt up in the duskie shady Chest of his Poems: or, Jack in a Box:

OH! that I had a quill that's snatcht from Eagle, That I may write thy praise: or th' mouth of Beagle, To throat thy worth out, for thy Verses gallant, (Of which within thy Book there is no small want) In which there Fancy lies up to the Elbows, And Satyrs keen as are the Spanish Bilboes. If thou wouldst write (as we say) plain as Dunstable; We might then apprehend thee; but not Constable Now can do't, nor to boot all his Watch-men, Although it be their Calling to Attach men.

Thou scorn'st to write in stile that's call'd down-right Because (say'st thou) to this age 'twill not sound right; Therefore dost swear thou must things above Moon write. I'le bid defiance now to Po'et Boquendo, Such Verse as his ofttimes Ballad-Women do Make; yes, and better too, his Turkish Turbat Fits not our English heads; his Verses are but Such as may be made by your Jack or your Gill; Our Poet makes as good as ev'r did Virgil. His title tells us, that upon Parnassus He nap't to make some Verse, but as the case is, Men scarce will credit; yet why not? f'r ought I know, He took deep sleeps ex fonte Caballino. For he that reads his Book will swear he dream'd sure, Else never such dark Poems had he teem▪d sure. Yet ought not men to think u'm sad 'cause obscure, They'le give you mirth I warrant, and all sobs cure. At th' end of his Book in jerking Character, Antiquity lies bruis'd, he hath so thwack't her. Nor 'scapes from his Description Temporizer, Who when he sees himself lasht so, will Miserere mei Domine cry.—But Readers haste in To view the Lines of Poet— Read'um I pray, for I will swear th'are good ones, And cannot mended be by a whole brood on's: Because, if ever we intend to do it, We must drink Foggie Ale, and so fall to it.

W. G. C. W. C.

Ʋpon the Author's Mystery of Babylon.

MY infant tender Muse can't praise thy tongue, As well as others of the learned throng. He's perfect man and wit, whose larger brain Can comprehend, and praise thy lowest strain. A Hue and cry With swiftest pace, And nimblest race, If it should try And ride to spy, Would hardly trace Thy sense, and finde Thy mystick minde. I cannot say thou writ'st instead of Ink With juice of Lemons, that's too sharp a drink, And quick; but yet as that conceals what's writ, Writes well enough, but then Blots out as fast agen; And so by riddling play Brings night in midst of Day, And none must hope to see What's written, though there it be. Just so thou jugglest, speak'st good sense and wit, Yet so obscure in every part of it, As that it disappears From all our eyes and ears, And we must use implicit faith to see't. Yet do not cry, Nor be angry. And thy friends fly,

As if they did abuse thee Thy body's opacous But do'nt thou mistake us, Nor pluck thy Mystachios, If ever thou wouldst use me: Because ev'ry Letter, Is far much the better, That wants * 1.30 Interpretter, And much doth amuse me. I thought to have praised some of thy Coppies, And shew'd how far th' excell'st other Puppies; But thy meaning is deep, And in it to peep, I fear my head will turn giddy. Thy Ale is so strong, And bottled so long, And close, that now 'tis so heady; As that it's mouth I would be loath To open: 'tis so froppish I know it will fly, And smite my eye, And make my brains quite sottish.

J. D. W. C. C.

Ʋpon the imcomparably-high-fancied Poems of the Author, so monstrously Obscure.

GIve me some ink fetcht from the Muses stream, Lull me asleep in a Poetique Dream; Inspire me with a rapture, let my Breast By sacred Fury be possest. Reach me a quill drawn from an Eagles wing, Teach me the way to write i'th' Moon, and bring All the world to read, and hear What in thy praise I shall write there. Hence you Poetique Dablers, hide your heads In Clouds and Darkness, here's one better leads Poor undeceived mortals, and displaies To undiscovered Lands of Poetry, Which hitherto did unknown lie; And will be ever so, far nearer wayes. Let Homer vanish hence, lest by the Pain Of hearing him, he vomit once again. Let Virgil feed on bread, leave him the Spring From which the Poets their originall bring: Let Ovid write more Tristia's; break his quill, He's banish'd once more from Parnassus Hill. Hence ye poor Ants that on that Mountain sit, Hence, and give place to a more majestique wit. He comes, fly off, lest you his triumph meet, Cast down your Pens, and onely use your Feet. Let's see your backs, h'as purchased all the Mount; Here's no room left for men of your account: Here's not one Turf under your Heads to lie, After your death, unless you from Him buy.

I saw the Bargain, when the Muses gave To him all right, which in that place they have. Thou hast exposed to the common sight Thy Poems, yet I can't say brought to light. Thy modest Muse puts on a mask between Our sight and it, sees all, and is not seen. Thy Verses rise above the vulgar flight, And draw themselves out of my wandring sight; Soar up to heaven to make a brighter day, Unless they meet the fire by the way. Prick up your ears Mortality, and hear The highest Lines that ever Paper bear: Bring your Five Senses hither, all won't do (I think) to read and understand him too. Put on your Spectacles, and wipe your eyes, And then you'l see where the deep Fancy lies: Attend these sacred Rimes; see, they begin To knock at your Brains door, and can't come in. Think you within the small space of your Brain To conceive that which the world can't contain? He's greater far then to be chain'd to Sense; Or held within that strait Circumference. Divinity scorns sense, and Angels ne're Can be confined to that Sphere. Oracles ne're did descend to be Easie and plain to each capacity; But hover'd in a mystick Cloud, Seldom conceiv'd, yet sounding loud. The Gods when they came from above To live with men, did chuse a Grove: A place in its own native darkness wrapt, Where they the sight of vulgar eyes escap't.

The holiest place was wondred at, not seen: The Priest himself might onely enter in: God to prophaner eyes denied the view, Lest they contemned what they knew. Poets should have Elijah's mantles, till the day They go to heaven, and then cast them away. The Suns bright beams, unless they look behinde A cloud, there wondring lookers on do blind. None that Divine, or Angels hand, Which with a sudden trembling did affright▪ The Babilonesh Kings delight; Unless interpreted could understand. Should you religion shew to common eyes, You from adoring teach them to despise: The Temple had its vail, which checkt the light Of Divine Mysteries from Prophaner sight. The Turkish mosques are darkned by their law, To strike Beholders with Majestick awe. Curtains fit those that on Parnassus Dream, Or near the Bublings of the sacred stream. Poets a'nt pictured in transparent lawn, But in a mantle cast about them, drawn. They that are crown'd with laurel boughs, The leaves give shaddow to their Brows. The true Poetick fire should have its smoak; Which might or blinde, or choak Those that approach too near; the sun Can Draw up mists from Helicon. Light things or top of waters are first spied; Those of more w••••••t down to the bottom slide. We take to get most precious things more pains, The best things are least obvious and plain.

The eye, which in it self's all light, In various coats is wrapt up from our sight. The choicest Fruits which nature liketh best, From injury in divers shells are drest. The purest Earth which least of mixture tast's Lies far removed near the center plac't. Best things may be obscure; thus was the Cloud On th' one side light, on th' other in a shrowd. Thus the North and Southern Pole On which celestial Bodies rowl; Which all the Earth doth come between, Are never both together seen. But if One gives the Saylours light, The Other is hid from their sight. Thus mountains in the unthrift moon, Without the help of glasses, can't be shewn. Thou Hieroglyphick Poet! whose deep wit Cannot be known without expounding it. The Turks, as many Commentatours throw'd As might at once two hundred Camels load, Into the waves: should all those thee expound, They'de leave thee just as deep as first they found. The expositions on thy Mysteries To such a numerous off-spring shall arise, As will put down the ignorant Rout Of those that blindely doat about Aquinas Sums, and Lombard's cobweb stuffe; Yet swear at last they han't explain'd enough: Persius may hang himself, for now he ha's lost The Darkness which he onely once ingrost; That clowdy Poet, if compared to thee, By A B C Boyes understood may be.

The Devil (had Barbarus thy Verses seen) But by some Aenygmatick notion took From the great abysse of thy Book. Or some deep Fancies in thy Brain that swim, Ile lay my life on't they'de have orappled him. Poets (as Aeolus the windes in caves) By loading words in Fetters make them slaves: You yours in an eternal Dungeon keep, (Darker far then that of Ink,) Onely it wants the stink: Through which not one small Beam of light can creep. Fetch me Augustus eyes, or Tamerlane's, Whose sight could give intelligence to their Brains In thickest Darkness; or his that could spie The enemies Fleet in Carthage Road to lie Three hundred Leagues off; and it may be they In this thy profound night will finde some day. They that from new made Characters can finde, And pick at last the mystick minde Of him that made them, would be more put to't, To search the meaning of thy fancy out. Should we attempt to hunt thy wit, As men do Hares by th' impress of it's feet: Be sure we never should it take, It doth so many subtle windings make. Thy Book's a Labyrinth, which doth infold It self in many turnings, that do flie The curious Diligence of the Readers eye; And yet it doth no Monsters hold. Like those that writ in wax, thy wit Is closed and sealed, as soon as writ. I've sometimes seen those that do bathe

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Themselves in our Suns waters, first to swathe Their Bodies in some shrowds for fear Lest any misbecoming nakedness appear: So thou when dipt in Helicon, comest out Hid and clouded from the vulgar rout: Yet thou by hiding of thy light, Compliest with the weakness of our sight. For shouldst thou to our mortal eyes With all thy Beams and luster on, arise; Th' exceeding brightness of that day Would make us blinde and grope our way. Go forth great spirit, let me see What the next age will think of thee. Dazle the world, shew that their sight Is not so piercing as it might. Make Antiquaries work in the next age, T'unty the Gordian knots of every page; Let them admire the Ocean of thy wit, Whilst all their leaden heads can't fathom it. Till the Phenix of the world, Into its funeral flame is hurl'd; To comprehend thy depth let none aspire, Till all our Bodley's there shall burn, And th' ashes be closed in one urn, Till thy Book is enlightened by that fire.

T. S. W. C. F. Oxon.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Our Au∣thors fan∣cy was al∣way couch∣ant, for he made all his Verses in Bed.
• * 1.2

  See the Author on his Mo∣ther's eyes
• * 1.3

  The Au∣thor hath borrowed several old Fancies out of Cleveland and others
• * 1.4

  Simile.
• * 1.5

  Acertain drug, dif∣fering in color from Album Graecum.
• * 1.6

  The two first letters of the two last words, are the Christen and the Surname of him that made those Verses.
• * 1.7

  Mat. Par∣ker the Ballad∣maker, Laureat of London.
• * 1.8

  A Scotch title for the Devil.
• * 1.9

  A Maxime.
• * 1.10

  A minore ad majus.
• * 1.11

  Well rhym'd Tutor, Brains and Stairs!
• * 1.12

  Where note she conceals her. preci∣ous stones, and the more mo∣dest she.
• * 1.13

  Lofty, because high, and high be∣cause no body can reach them
• * 1.14

  An old Bodge.
• * 1.15

  No false position in English good Sir!
• * 1.16

  For co∣lorem, by a piece of an Aphaeresis, and a piece of Syncope
• * 1.17

  You may read it▪ Wodden▪
• * 1.18

  But, when he does so, he verifies the Pro∣verb, viz. Aethopem lavat.
• * 1.19

  [g] Au∣fertur in fine, per Apocopen
• * 1.20

  A Law∣term a Ju∣ry brings in, when it can't de∣termine of a Case.
• * 1.21

  In English, a Grandvifier, a grand Statesman in Turky.
• * 1.22

  or 6s. 8d.
• * 1.23

  An Eng∣lish saw inver'st.
• * 1.24

  A fa∣mous Scoth Poet I think he was.
• * 1.25

  It should have been Falstaff, if the rhyme had per∣mitted it.
• * 1.26

  Why? who calls 'um so but you?
• * 1.27

  A Pro∣vince in Italy.
• * 1.28

  A Scotch word for a Belly.
• * 1.29

  This Verse is somewhat of the longest size.
• * 1.30

  t. inseri∣tur per E∣penthesin.