قراءة كتاب An apology for the study of northern antiquities
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An apology for the study of northern antiquities
despised by our modern Criticks, especially those who have any Respect for Chaucer.
I might give more Instances out of John Harding, and our good old Citizen, Alderman Fabian, besides many others: but out of that Respect to the nice Genij of our Time, which they seldom allow to others, I will hasten to the Times of greater Politeness, and desire that room may be made, and attention given to a Person of no less Wit than Honour, the Earl of Surrey, who at least had all the Elegancy of a gentle Muse, that may deserve the Praises of our Sex,
Her Praise I tune whose Tongue doth tune the Spheres,
And gets new Muses in her Hearers Ears.
Stars fall to fetch fresh Light from her rich Eyes,
Her bright Brow drives the Sun to Clouds beneath.
Again,
O Glass! with too much Joy my Thoughts thou greets.
And again upon the Chamber where his admired Geraldine was born;
O! if Elyzium be above the Ground,
Then here it is, where nought but Joy is found.
And Michael Drayton, who had a Talent fit to imitate, and to celebrate so great a Genius, of all our English Poets, seems best to have understood the sweet and harmonious placing of Monosyllables, and has practised it with so great a Variety, as discovers in him a peculiar Delight, even to Fondness; for which however, I cannot blame him, notwithstanding this may be reputed the Vice of our Sex, and in him be thought effeminate. But let the Reader judge for himself;
Care draws on Care, Woe comforts Woe again,
Sorrow breeds Sorrow, one Griefe brings forth twaine,
If live or dye, as thou doost, so do I,
If live, I live, and if thou dye, I dye;
One Hart, one Love, one Joy, one Griefe, one Troth,
One Good, one Ill, one Life, one Death to both.
Again,
Where as thou cam’st unto the Word of Love,
Even in thine Eyes I saw how Passion strove;
That snowy Lawn which covered thy Bed,
Me thought lookt white, to see thy cheeke so red,
Thy rosye cheeke oft changing in my sight,
Yet still was red to see the Lawn so white:
The little Taper which should give the Light,
Me thought waxt dim, to see thy Eye so bright.
Again,
Your Love and Hate is this, I now do prove you,
You Love in Hate, by Hate to make me love you.
And to the Countess of Bedford, one of his great Patronesses;
Sweet Lady yet, grace this poore Muse of mine,
Whose Faith, whose Zeal, whose Life, whose All is thine.
The next that I shall mention, is taken out of an ingenious Poem, entituled, The Tale of the Swans, written by William Vallans in blank Verse in the time of Queen Elizabeth; for the reprinting of which, we are obliged to that ingenious and most industrious Preserver and Restorer of Antiquities, Mr. Thomas Hearne of Oxford;
Among the which the merrie Nightingale
With swete, and swete (her Brest again a Thorne.)
In another Place,
And in the Launde, hard by the Parke of Ware
Afterwards,
To Ware he comes, and to the Launde he flies.
Again,
And in this Pompe they hie them to the Head.
I come now to the incomparable Spencer, against whose Judgment and Practice, I believe scarce any Man will be so bold as to oppose himself;
Assure your self; it fell not all to Ground;
For all so dear as Life is to my Heart,
I deem your Love, and hold me to you bound.
Again,
Go say his Foe thy Shielde with his doth bear.
Afterwards,
More old than Jove, whom thou at first didst breed.
And,
And now the Prey of Fowls in Field he lies.
Nor must Ben. Johnson be forgotten;
Thy Praise or Dispraise is to me alike;
One doth not stroke me, nor the other strike.
Again,
Curst be his Muse, that could lye dumb, or hid
To so true Worth, though thou thy self forbid.
In this Train of Voters for Monosyllables, the inimitable Cowley marches next, whom we must not refuse to hear;
Yet I must on; what Sound is’t strikes mine Ear?
Sure I Fames Trumpet hear.
And a little after,
Come my best Friends, my Books, and lead me on;
’Tis time that I were gone.
Welcome, great Stagirite, and teach me now
All I was born to know.
And commending Cicero, he says,
Thou art the best of Orators; only he
Who best can praise thee, next must be.
And of Virgil thus,
Who brought green Poesy to her perfect Age,
And made that Art, which was a Rage.
And in the beginning of the next Ode, he wou’d not certainly have apply’d himself to WIT in the harsh Cadence of Monosyllables, had he thought them so very harsh;
Tell me, O tell, what kind of thing is Wit,
Thou who Master art of it.
Again,
In a true Piece of Wit all things must be
Yet all things there agree.
But did he believe such Concord to be inconsistent with the use of Monosyllables, he had surely banished them from these two Lines; and were I to fetch Testimonies out of his Writings, I might pick a Jury of Twelve out of every Page.
And now comes Mr. Waller, and what does he with his Monosyllables, but,
Give us new Rules, and set our Harp in Tune.
And that honourable Peer whom he commends, the Lord Roscommon thus keeps him in Countenance;
Be what you will, so you be still the same.
And again,
In her full Flight, and when she shou’d be curb’d.
Soon after,
Use is the Judge, the Law, and Rule of Speech,
And by and by,
We weep and laugh, as we see others do,
He only makes me sad who shews the way:
But if you act them ill, I sleep or laugh.
The next I shall mention is my Lord Orrery, who, as Mr. Anthony Wood says, was a great Poet, Statesman, Soldier, and great every thing which merits the Name of Great and Good. In his Poem to Mrs. Philips, he writes thus;
For they imperfect Trophies to you raise,
You deserve Wonder, and they pay but Praise;
A Praise which is as short of your great due.
As all which yet have writ come short of you.
Again,
In Pictures none hereafter will delight,
You draw more to the Life in black and white;
The Pencil to your Pen must yield the Place,
This draws the Soul, where that draws but the Face.
But having thank’d these noble Lords for their Suffrage, we will proceed to some other Witnesses of Quality: And first I beg leave to appeal to my Lord Duke of Buckinghamshire, his Translation of The Temple of Death;