Poems, &c. By James Shirley.

To my Worthy Friend Mr. JAMES SHIRLEY, Upon His Poems.

WHen dearest Friend, thy verse doth re-inspire Loves pale decaying Torch with brighter fire, Whilst everywhere thou dost dilate thy flame, And to the world spread thy Odelias name, The justice of all Ages must remit To Her the Prize of Beauty, Thee of Wit.

Then like some skilful Artist, that to wonder Framing a peece, displeas'd, takes it asunder, Thou Beauty dost depose, Her Charmes deny, And all the mystick chains of Love untie; Thus thy diviner Muse a power 'bove Fate May boast, that can both make, and uncreate.

Next thou call'st back to life that Love-sick Boy, To the kind-hearted Nymphes lesse fair then coy, Who, by reflex beams burnt with vain desire, Did Phenix-like, in his owne flames expire: But should he view his shadow drawn by thee, He with himself once more in love would be:

Eccho (who though she words pursue, her hast Can onely overtake and stop the last) Shall her first speech and humane veil obtaine To sing thy softer numbers o're again. Thus into dying Poetry, thy Muse Doth full perfection and new life infuse, Each line deserves a Laurel, and thy praise Askes not a Garland, but a Grove of Bayes: Nor can ours raise thy lasting Trophies higher, Who only reach at merit, to admire.

But I must chide thee Friend, how canst thou be A Patron, yet a Foe to Poetrie? For while thou dost this Age to Verse restore, Thou dost deprive the next of owning more; And hast so far even future aymes surpast, That none dare write; Thus being first and last, All, their abortive Muses will suppresse, And Poetry by this increase grow lesse.

THO. STANLEY.