Præludium

X. ? PRÆLUDIUM.     For the more countenance to my active muse?  
Hercules ?  Alas his bones are yet sore, With his old earthly labors :  t' exact more, Of his dull godhead, were sin.  I'll implore  
Phoebus.  No, tend thy cart still.  Envious day Shall not give out that I have made thee stay, And founder'd thy hot team, to tune my lay. Nor will I beg of thee, Lord of the vine, To raise my spirits with thy conjuring wine, In the green circle of thy ivy twine.  
Pallas, nor thee I call on, mankind maid, That at thy birth, mad'st the poor smith afraid, Who with his axe, thy father's midwife plaid.  
Go,  cramp dull Mars, light Venus, when he snorts, Or, with thy tribade trine, invent new sports ; Thou nor thy looseness with my making sorts.  
Let the old boy, your son, ply his old task, Turn the stale prologue to some painted mask ; His absence in my verse, is all I ask.  
Hermes, the cheater, shall not mix with us, Though he would steal his sisters' Pegasus, And rifle him : or pawn his petasus.                   THE PHOENIX ANALYSED.              Now, after all, let no man                     Receive it for a fable,                     If a bird so amiable             Do turn into a woman.              Or, by our Turtle's augure,                     That nature's fairest creature                     Prove of his mistress' feature             But a bare type and figure.
Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake, (Though they were crushed into one form) could make A beauty of that merit, that should take.
                        Splendor !  O more than mortal         For other forms come short all,         Of her illustrious brightness         As far as sin's from lightness.          Her wit as quick and sprightful         As fire, and more delightful         Than the stolen sports of lovers,         When night their meeting covers.          Judgment, adorn'd with learning,         Doth shine in her discerning,         Clear as a naked vestal         Closed in an orb of crystal.          Her breath for sweet exceeding         The phoenix' place of breeding,         But mix'd with sound, transcending         All nature of commending.          Alas then whither wade I         In thought to praise this lady,         When seeking her renowning         My self am so near drowning?          Retire, and say her graces         Are deeper than their faces,         Yet she's not nice to show them,         Nor takes she pride to know them.  My muse up by commission ;  no, I bring My own true fire : now my thought takes wing, And now an EPODE to deep ears I sing.

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