Poems, viz. 1. A panegyrick to the king. 2. Songs and sonnets. 3. The blind lady, a comedy. 4. The fourth book of Virgil, 5. Statius his Achilleis, with annotations. 6. A panegyrick to Generall Monck. / By the Honorable Sr Robert Howard.

To my Honored Friend, S^r ROBERT HOWARD, On his Excellent Poems.

AS there is Musick uninform'd by Art In those wild Notes, which with a merry heart The Birds in unfrequented shades expresse, Who better taught at home, yet please us lesse: So in your Verse, a native sweetnesse dwells, Which shames-Composure, and its Art excells. Singing, no more can your soft numbers grace Then Paint adds charms unto a beauteous Face. Yet as when mighty Rivers gently creep, Their even calmnesse does suppose them deep, Such is your Muse: no Metaphor swell'd high With dangerous boldnesse lifts her to the sky; Those mounting Fancies when they fall again, Shew sand and dirt at bottom do remain. So firm a strength, and yet with all so sweet, Did never but in Sampson's Riddle meet. 'Tis strange each line so great a weight should bear, And yet no signe of toil, no sweat appear.

Either your Arthides Art, as Stoicks feign Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain; And we, dull souls, admire, but cannot see What hidden springs within the Engine be: Or 'tis some happinesse that still pursues Each act and motion of your gracefull muse. Or is it Fortune's work, that in your bead The curious * 1.1 Net that is for fancies spread, Let's through its Meshes every meaner thought, While rich Idea's there are onely caught. Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair To be the child of Chance, and not of Care. No Atoms casually together hurl'd Could e're produce so beautifull a world. Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit, As would destroy the providence of wit. 'Tis your strong Genius then which does not feel Those weights would make a weaker spirit reel: To carry weight and run so lightly too Is what alone your Pegasus can do. Great Hercules himself could ne're do more Than not to feel those Heav'ns and gods he bore. Your easier Odes; which for de••ight were penn'd, Yet our instruction make their s••cond end, We're both enrich'd and pleas'd, like them that woo At once a Beauty and a Fortune too. Of Morall Knowledge Poesie was Queen, And still she might, had wanton wits not been;

VVho like ill Guardians liv'd themselves at large, And not content with that, debauch'd their charge: Like some brave Captain, your successfull Pen Restores the Exil'd to her Crown again; And gives us hope, that having seen the days VVhen nothing flourish'd but Fanatique Bays, All wi••l at length in this opinion rest, "A sober Prince's Government is best. This is not all; your Art the way has found To make improvement of the richest ground, That soil which those immortall Lawrells bore, That once the sacred Maro's temples wore Elisa's griefs, are so exprest by you, They are too eloquent to have been true. Had she so spoke, Aeneas had obey'd VVhat Dido rather then what Jove had said. If funerall Rites can give a Ghost repose, Your Muse so justly has discharged those. Elisa's shade may now its wandring cease, And claim a title to the fields of peace. But if Aeneas be oblig'd, no lesse Your kindnesse great Achilles doth confesse, VVho dress••d by Statius in too bold a look, Did ill become those Virgin's Robes he took. To understand how much we owe to you, VVe must your Numbers with your Author's view; Then we shall see his work was lamely rough, Each figure stiffe as if design'd in buffe;

His colours laid so thick on every place, As onely shew'd the paint, but hid the face: But as in Perspective we Beauties see; VVhich in the Glasse, not in the Picture be; So here our sight obligeingly mistakes That wealth which his your bounty onely makes. Thus vulgar dishes are by Cooks disguis'd, More for their dressing than their substance priz'd. Your curious * 1.2 Notes so search into that Age, VVhen all was fable but the sacred Page, That since in that dark night we needs must stray, VVe are at least misled in pleasant way. But what we most admire, your Verse no lesse The Prophet than the Poet doth confesse. Ere our weak eyes discern'd the doubtfull streak Of light, you saw great Charls his morning break. So skilfull Sea-men ken the Land from far, VVhich shews like mists to the dul Passenger. To Charls your Muse first pays her dutious love, As still the Antients did begin from Jove. VVith Monck you end, whose name preserv'd shall be, As Rome recorded * 1.3 Rufus memory, VVho thought it greater honor to obey His Countrey's interest than the world to sway.

But to write worthy things of worthy men Is the peculiar talent of your Pen: Yet let me take your Mantle up, and I VVill venture in your right to prophesy.

"This VVork by merit first of Fame secure "Is likewise happy in its Geniture: "For since 'tis born when Charls ascends the Throne, "It shares at once his Fortune and its own.

JOHN DRIDEN.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Rete Mira∣bile.
• * 1.2

  Annotations on Statius.
• * 1.3

  Hic situs est Rufus qui pulso vindice quondam, Imperium asseruit non fi∣bi sed Patriae.