The English Parnassus, or, A helpe to English poesie containing a collection of all rhyming monosyllables, the choicest epithets, and phrases : with some general forms upon all occasions, subjects, and theams, alphabeticaly digested : together with a short institution to English poesie, by way of a preface / by Joshua Poole.

To the hopeful young Gentlemen, his Schollers in that private School, at Hadley, Kept in the house of Mr. Francis Atkinson.

SWeet impes of early hopes whose smiling brow Beckens the cincture of the laureate bough, Whose lips seem made, to tast no other spring, Than that by which the The spian virgins sing. Whose sprightly face, and active eyes descry The Muses in a rising majesty: You that without th'edition of a book, Can make men read a Poet in your look; Whose downy plumes with happy augurie, Presage betimes, what the fledge soul will be.

For you (Ingenious spirits) thus I trie To find a milkie way to Poesie, That babes, as they the coral nipples lugge, May find an Hippocrene within the dugge, And the first milk that they shall feed upon, May be the sacred dew of Helicon, And when at first their steps the earth shall greete, At once may find their own and verses feete, After as they grow up, Pegasus may Be the first hobby-horse with which they play, And when to higher sports they come, may put An Homers Iliads in their game some nut, And whilst they take their pastime in the sun, Together make their tops and verses run, Nay to that height they shall their phancies raise, That whilst they run at, they shal win the Baies, In all their sports they shall the Poets play, And make the Birch, prevented by the Bay;

For they shal need no Masters to rehearse Long tedious precepts of the lawes of verse, In them so printed shall those lawes be seen, As if they had the lawes of Nature been. The only taske their Masters shall impose On them, will be, to learn to speak in prose; In which, they shall have, if they chance t'offend, As boys scan, verses at their fingers ends, Pleading like Ovid for to save their breech, As if Prosodia went before In speech, Or that they had into the world been brought, As Lucan died, with verses in their throat, Their cradles of the verdant laurel been, Or of those learned trees which once were seene After the Thracian Harper dance along, Wedding their motions to his well-tim'd song, And all that shal their sodain raptures hear, That Poets are not made, but born will swear.

The early blossoms which I see in you, Makes me believe these my presages true; For, if you can so much already do; What will they that may sooner come unto Parnassus mount? If you so much can see On plainer ground, what will they that shal be Advantag'd by that hill, whose tops do rise In stately height, to parly with the skies?

On then (sweet souls) that sacred verse may be No longer call'd the thred-bare mystery; Let the world see, what yet it scarce before Hath known, there are good Poets, yet not poore, Whose inspirations, and rich phancies be More than a Taverns frothy tympany, That conjure not up wit with spirit of wine, Nor make the bay, supported by the vine;

Like those whose thirsty fancies ebbe and flow, lust as their cups, greater or lesser grow, Phaebus and Bacchus that together link, And never write, but in or after drink: As when great showers of rain fall from the skies, In standing waters bubbles will arise.

And for my selfe (though I did ne'r bestride The winged horse, and through the welkin glide, Ʋnto the forked hill; nor saw the spring, Where those sweet maids of Memory do sing: Whilst their harmonious aires give easie birth Ʋnto the flowers, and help the teeming earth: Whilst shaggy Satyrs yeild their sences thrall To the sweet cadence of their madrigals, And all the leavy standards of the wood, Quitting the place where they before had stood, Came listning on, and every gladsome tree, Link't with his neighbour to an unity, Whisper their mutual joyes, till they had made By their embrace, an unexpected shade, And all the wing'd musitians of the aire, Hid in their branches make a close repaire, That by their tunes, they might learn how to sing, And give a better welcome to the spring; Whilst savage beasts, that thither too were come Offerd themselves a thankful Hecatombe: Though I dare not make title to that tree That growes upon the banks of Castalie, Nor on Parnassus top had ever Theam Presented by the Muses in a dream, Or with my teeth unbarkt the laurel graffe, Yet) can I lend the weaker brains a staff For their supportment, till their riper wit, Shall laugh to see, they ever needed it,

Staffes cannot goe, and yet enable him That wants assistance to his feeble limbe; He that is lame, and cannot move, yet may Lie still, and point to others out the way. Many are dumb, and know not how to break Their mind in words, yet by mute signes can speak, And talk so with their fingers, that another May give that language which their dumbnesse smothers. Though whetstones cannot cut at all, they may Do service, and make knives as sharp as they Themselves are blunt, and they who cannot ring By jangling may toll better ringers in, Candles see nought themselves, yet lend a light, VVhich in the dark gives others use of sight. The height of my ambition and intent, Is but to be a luckie instrument For others good, and instruments we know, Are usefull, though themselves can nothing do;

Accept and use then this my book, aspire Ʋnto the Mountains top, blow up that fire VVhich yet is but a spark Prometheus stole From Phebus wheels what burns within your soul, Then give it vent, let it advance a flame, VVhich may secure your and the Poets name, From all the malice of invading time, And conquer death with your victorious rime.

And though you may perchance meet some of those That in a Satyr of their dough-bak'd Prose, Not able to reach further, lash the horse, They cannot sit, and whil'st they rudely force Their waspish language to disgrace the fount, The horse-hoof-made, scorning the sacred Mount, Too high for them to climb, turn horse themselves, And kick in vain, as waves against the shelves.

Crushing their froth, as dogs disturb the night With fruitlesse howling at fair Cynthia's light, Whilst she untroubled still along doth glide, More by their barking envy glorifi'd, In that bright Carre, their snarls cannot impeach, As much above their malice as their reach: Or like that fox, who long with greedy eyes, Did on the grapy clusters tantalise, And last contents himself to call them sower, Which he perceiveth plac'd above his power, And these may tell you that the Poets be, But the fomenters of of obscenitie, Of lust and lewdnesse, verse the Devils bait, To draw youth on to what they else would hate.

Be not discourag'd, Muses none despise, That ever gave the Graces Sacrifice; Such Majesty is couch'd in numerous layes, They never understood, which can dispraise.

'Tis true, some spend their ill-disposed hour, Onely the Virgin Muses to deflowr, And in loose language make the Graces be Naked beyond the bounds of Modestie, Who whilst with shamelesse ribaldry they sing, Make Helicon a puddle for a spring, Enough to make their reader, one would think, With blushing change the colour of their ink: But must we, cause some children idly play, And cut their fingers, throw our knives away? Or cause when once their bellies full, they eat No more, but toy, must we forgoe our meat? What if some looser dames to painting fall; Shall chaster Matrons have no face at all? If some for lust their gaudie garments wear, Shall modest Virgins all their cloaths forswear?

If some by faggots ruine do conspire, Must our cold chimney therefore want a fire? And shall Lycurgus cut down every vine, Because some Thraoians did exceed in wine? Shall we all modest pictures quite decline, For the lascivious draughts of Aretine? If that abuse could take away the right, And lawfull use, we scarce should use our sight. Scripture may be abus'd, and best things may, By the same argument, be cast away. Though Caesar banish't Ovid far from Rome, He kept Parthenious Virgil still at home. All Poets are not vitious some there be, Like Cato, verse it, yet with modesty, And won to goodnesse, by their verse can show, More souls than many prose-Divines can do; Crown'd with religious bayes: for often those Are chain'd by numbers that contemn loose prose, And those whose souls are come so near the gall, Of bitternesse, as to think stoicall What speaks Religion, yet will dare to try The Poets popular Divinity, And with a yielding fancy lend an ear To all that by the Poet preach't they hear. Many have been, which Pulpits did eschew, Converted from the Poets reading pew, And those that seldome do salute the porch Of Solomon, will come to Herberts Church; For as that English Lyrick sweetly sings, Whilst angels danc'd upon his trembling strings, A verse may find him who a Sermon flies, And turn delight into a sacrifice. Then let the Poet use his lawfull bait, To make men swallow what they else would hate,

Like wise Physicians that their pills infold In sugar, paper, or the leaves of gold, And by a vertuous fraud and honest stealth, Cozen unwilling Patients into health; Like winter fires, that with disdainfull heat, The opposition of the cold defeat, And in an angry Spleen do burn more fair, The more encountered by the frosty air; Let your Phebean fires its flame advance, Blown by the cold breath of chill ignorance, And like Amphion build a lofty rhyme, That shall outlast the insolence of time, For there is hidden in a Poets name. A spell that can command the wings of fame, And maugre all oblivions hated birth, Begin your immortality on earth, "And when more spreading titles are forgot, "And spight of all their lead and searcloth rot, "You wrapt and shrin'd in your own sheets shall lye "As reliques fam'd for all posterity. No envious time or age shall ever pierce, The better marble of eternal verse, Nine Muses can cammand the fatall three, And make their baies out-live the Cypresse tree, And though they part with breath they cannot die Whose name's embalm'd in sacred Poesie, For such are the proud miracles of verse, They make men rise up from their drowsie herse, And cause the grave deaths utmost spite but be A larger womb to immortality. The Deities above, and those below, To the learn'd nine auspcious homage ow, And they whose heads the lawrel chaplets bear Can charm the gods in either Hemisphere.

What is't the Muses javelin cannot pierce? When heaven and hell are master'd by a verse, The Laurel staffe sway'd by a learned hand Carries more magick than that silver wand, Heavens verger waves, then that Medea shook, When Aeson from the scalding bath she took, Hot as the youth she gave him, or the ram, Which from the Caldron leap't a frisking lamb, Such boundlesse power doth on numbers wait Without a blasphemy they can create, Nor have they fame and strength alone, but can Surfet the unconfin'd desires of man, With soul-transporting pleasure and content, Not to be thought on without ravishment: For when the ranging fancy hath in vain Pursued delight through all things, yet remains Still empty, these with satisfaction fill; Deucalions ship rests on Parnassus hill. For as he sung, that was the blithest swain, That ever finger'd pipe on flowry plain, You may in these as oft as you shall chuse, "Hugge sweet content with your retired Muse, "And in those studies find as much to please, "As others in the greatest Palaces, "Instead of hounds, that make the wooded hils "Talk in an hundred voices to the rills, "Hear you the pleasing cadence of a line; "Struck by the consort of the sacred nine. "In lieu of hawks, the raptures of your soul, "Transcend their pitch, and baser earths controll; "For running horses, let your fancies flie "Like arrows that outrun the hunting eye; "For courtly dancing, you may take more pleasure. "To hear your verse keep time and equall measure,

"All this without expence, when others oft, "With their undoings have their pleasures bought, Such are the Poets joyes, as be no lesse Than th' image of eternal happinesse, L••ke heavens; none these, save the enjoyers know, And they themselves better conceive than show, Reveng'd on their ignorance are those, Which tread the morter of untempred prose, Whose groveling fanc••es, and too low pitcht eye Cannot reach up unto the Poets skie, And yet like those that to shoot up are bold, At what their dazled sense cannot behold, Against the poet saucily dare vent Their barrn fancies, frothy excrement, Pitiing their ignorance, wish you no worse, Than what was once the noble Sydneys curse, May Cupid wound them, and they lye forlorn, As pitied objects of their mistresse scorn, Wanting that fire which warms the poets brain To thaw the ice of her deserv'd disdain, Till dead with grief, they make the Muses laugh To see their names deni'd an Epitaph, And all their fame inearthed with their herse, Rotting for want of an embalming verse.

Contemn their scorns and with a brave disdain, Sleight all those toyes, that others entertain, Which onely study how to wear their clothes, And fill up their imperfect speech with oaths, Scruing their body into every shape, And are content to be the common ape Of every Nation, so they may but be In fashion with their flanting braverie; Whose best discourse can no more skill impart, Than tales of hawks and hounds in terms of art,

Who, if they have a tatling spur and bear, Heads light as the gay feathers which they wear, Whistle in silks, and sometimes can invent Occasion for a thread-bare complement, And make a gaudie hilted rapier ride, H••d in as fine a scabbard, on their side, As more for shew than use; talk of a wench With more disease than language of the French, In whom inventious tailours forming art, And the spruce barbour claims a greater part, Than nature or their education can, Think themselves are the onely Gentile man, And complete, gallant for this outward dresse, And gilded trim, when they are nothing lesse; But shapes of men, and speaking butterflies, Attracting onely fools, and childrens eyes.

Let these enjoy their humours, whose descent, And blood's the best and onely argument That they can use to prove them Gentlemen; Whilst by the raptures of your learned pen, Your sweet pac'd numbers and harmonious layes, You get the solid, and enduring praise, And shew your worth and birth by a divine, And better far than your forefathers line.

Pay then the Muses Tithes, and let those powers Of sacred verse, share in your idle hours, Those ravell'd thrums of time on fruitlesse play, And emptinesse should not be thrown away. Those threads of patcht up vacant hours may Make cloths will serve you for a working day; The product rising from such vacant hours Makes this to be what I my self am—

Yours Josua Pool.