There's no man fit to read what you have writ,
That holds not some proportion with your
As light can no way but by light appear,
He must bring sense, that understands it here.
A PALINODIE TO THE HON. EDWARD
UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE POEM ON
It is your pardon, Sir, for which my Muse
Thrice humbly thus, in form of paper, sues;
For having felt the dead weight of
your wit,
She comes to ask forgiveness, and submit ;
Is sorry for her faults, and, while I write,
Mourns in the black, does penance in the white.
But such is her belief in your just candour,
She hopes you will not so misunderstand her,
To wrest her harmless meaning to the sense
Of silly emulation or offence.
No; your sufficient wit does still declare
Itself too amply, they are mad that dare
So vain and senseless a presumption own,
To yoke your vast parts in comparison.
And yet you might have thought upon a way
T' instruct us, how you'd have us to obey,
And not command our praises, and then blame
All that's too great, or little for your fame :
For who could choose but err, without some trick
To take your elevation to a nick?
As he that was desired, upon occasion,
To make the Mayor of London an oration,
Desired his Lordship's favour, that he might
Take measure of his mouth, to fit it right;
So, had you sent a scantling of your wit,
You might have blamed us, if it did not fit;
But 'tis not just t' impose, and then cry down
All that's unequal to your huge renown;
For he that writes below your vast desert,
Betrays his own, and not your want of art.
Praise, like a robe of state, should not sit close
To th' person 'tis made for, but wide and loose;
Derives its comeliness from being unfit,
And such have been our praises of your wit,
Which is so extraordinary, no height
Of fancy but your own can do it right ;
Witness those glorious poems you have writ
With equal judgment, learning, art, and wit,
And those stupendious discoveries,
You've lately made of wonders in the skies.
For who but from yourself did ever hear
The sphere of atoms 1 was the atmosphere?
Who ever shut those stragglers in a room,
Or put a circle about vacuum?
What should confine those undetermined crowds,
And yet extend no farther than the clouds?
Who ever could have thought, but you alone,
A sign and an ascendant were all one?
Or how 'tis possible the Moon should shroud
Her face, to peep at Mars behind a cloud;
Since clouds below are so far distant placed,
They cannot hinder her from being barefaced?
Sphere of atoms,' &c.: referring to certain absurd ideas in the poc:n satirised.
Who ever did a language so enrich,
To scoru all little particles of speech?
For though they make the sense clear, yet they're found To be a scurvy hindrance to the sound;
Therefore you wisely scorn your style to humble,
Or for the sense's sake to wave the rumble.
Had Homer known this art, he'd ne'er been fain
To use so many particles in vain,
That to no purpose serve, but (as he haps
To want a syllable) to fill up gaps.
You justly coin new verbs to pay for those,
Which in construction you o'ersee and lose :
And by this art do Priscian no wrong
When you break's head, for 'tis as broad as long.
These are your own discoveries, which none
But such a Muse as yours could hit upon,
That can, in spite of laws of art or rules,
Make things more intricate than all the schools:
For what have laws of art to do with you,
More than the laws with honest men and true?
He that's a prince in poetry should strive
To cry 'em down, by his prerogative,
And not submit to that which has no force
But o'er delinquents and inferiors.
Your poems will endure to be try'd
I' th' fire like gold, and come forth purify'd ;
Can only to eternity pretend,
For they were never writ to any end.
All other books bear an uncertain rate,
But those you write are always sold by weight,
Each word and syllable brought to the scale,
And valued to a scruple in the sale.
For, when the paper's charged with your rich wit,
"Tis for all purposes and uses fit,
Has an abstersive virtue to make clean
Whatever Nature made in man obscene.
Boys find, b' experiment, no paper-kite,
Without your verse, can make a noble flight.
It keeps our spice and aromatics sweet;
In Paris they perfume their rooms with it;
For burning but one leaf of yours, they say,
Drives all their stinks and nastiness away.
Cooks keep their pies from burning with your wit,
Their pigs and geese from scorching on the spit:
And vintners find their wines are ne'er the worse,
When ars'nic's only wrapt up in the verse.
These are the great performances, that raise
Your mighty parts above all reach of praise,
And give us only leave t' admire your worth,
For no man, but yourself, can set it forth,
Whose wondrous pow'r 's so generally known,
Fame is the echo, and her voice your own.
"TIs pity WINE, which Nature meant
To man in kindness to present,
And gave him kindly to caress
And cherish his frail happiness,
Of equal virtue to renew
His weary'd mind, and body too,
Should (like the cyder-tree in Eden,
Which only grew, to be forbidden)
No sooner come to be enjoy'd,
But th' owner's fatally destroy'd;
And that which she for good design'd,
Becomes the ruin of mankind,
That for a little vain excess
Runs out of all its happiness,
And makes the friend of Truth and Love
Their greatest adversary prove;
T'abuse a blessing she bestow'd
So truly essential to his good;
To countervail his pensive cares,
And slavish drudgery of affairs;
To teach him judgment, wit, and sense,
And, more than all these, confidence ;
To pass his times of recreation
In choice and noble conversation,
Catch truth and reason unawares,
As men do health in wholesome airs
(While fools their conversants possess.
As unawares with sottishness);
To gain access a private way
To man's best sense, by its own key,
Which painful judges strive in vain
By any other course t' obtain ;
To pull off all disguise, and view
Things as they 're natural and true;
Discover fools and knaves, allow'd
For wise and honest in the crowd;
With innocent and virtuous sport
Make short days long, and long nights short,
And mirth the only antidote
Against diseases, ere they 're got;
To save health harmless from th' access
Both of the med'cine and disease;
Or make it help itself, secure
Against the desperat'st fit, the cure.
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