TO MY BEST BROTHER

ON HIS POEMS CALLED "LUCASTA"

Now

'OW y' have oblieg'd the age, thy wel known worth

Is to our joy auspiciously brought forth.

Good morrow to thy son, thy first borne flame
Which, as thou gav'st it birth, stamps it a name,
That Fate and a discerning age shall set
The chiefest jewell in her coronet.

Why then needs all this paines, those season'd pens,
That standing lifeguard to a booke (kinde friends),
That with officious care thus guard thy gate,
As if thy Child were illigitimate?

Forgive their freedome, since unto their praise
They write to give, not to dispute thy bayes.

As when some glorious queen, whose pregnant wombe
Brings forth a kingdome with her first-borne Sonne,
Marke but the subjects joyfull hearts and eyes:
Some offer gold, and others sacrifice;

This slayes a lambe, that, not so rich as hee,

Brings but a dove, this but a bended knee;

And though their giftes be various, yet their sence Speaks only this one thought, Long live the prince.

So, my best brother, if unto your name
I offer up a thin blew-burning flame,

Pardon my love, since none can make thee shine,
Vnlesse they kindle first their torch at thine.
Then as inspir'd, they boldly write, nay that,
Which their amazed lights but twinkl'd at,
And their illustrate thoughts doe voice this right,
Lucasta held their torch; thou gav'st it light.
FRANCIS LOVELACE, Col.

AD EUNDEM

N puer Idalius tremulis circumvolat alis,

EN

Quem propè sedentem castior uret amor.
Lampada sic videas circumvolitare Pyraustā,
Cui contingenti est flamma futura rogus.
Ergo procul fugias, Lector, cui nulla placebunt
Carmina, ni fuerint turpia, spurca, nigra.
Sacrificus Romæ lustralem venditat undam:
Castior est illâ Castalis unda mihi:
Limpida, et evλɩкpivǹs, nullâ putredine spissa,
Scilicet ex puro defluit illa jugo.

Ex purâ veniunt tam dîa poemata mente,
Cui scelus est Veneris vel tetigisse fores.

THOMAS HAMERSLEY, Eques Auratus

D

C

ON THE POEMS

OW humble is thy muse (Deare) that can daign
Such servants as my pen to entertaine!
When all the sonnes of wit glory to be
Clad in thy muses gallant livery.

I shall disgrace my master, prove a staine,
And no addition to his honour'd traine;
Though all that read me will presume to swear
I neer read thee: yet if it may appear,

I love the writer and admire the writ,
I my owne want betray, not wrong thy wit.
Did thy worke want a prayse, my barren brain
Could not afford it: my attempt were vaine.
It needs no foyle: All that ere writ before,
Are foyles to thy faire Poems, and no more.
Then to be lodg'd in the same sheets with thine,
May prove disgrace to yours, but grace to mine.

NORRIS JEPHSON, Col.