On Mr. Shirley'S Poems [1646].[11:1]

When, dearest Friend, thy verse doth re-inspire Love's pale decaying torch with brighter fire, Whilst everywhere thou dost dilate thy flame, And to the world spread thy Odelia's name, The justice of all ages must remit To her the prize of beauty, thee of wit. Then, like some skilful artist, that to wonder[11:2] Framing some[11:3] piece, displeas'd, takes it asunder, Thou Beauty dost depose, her charms deny, And all the mystic chains of Love untie. Thus thy diviner Muse a power 'bove Fate May boast, that can both make and uncreate. Next, thou call'st back to life that love-sick boy, To the kind-hearted nymphs less fair than coy, Who, by reflex beams burnt with vain desire, Did, phoenix-like, in his own flames expire; But should he view his shadow drawn by thee, He with himself once more in love would be. Echo, (who though she words[11:4] pursue, her haste Can only overtake and stop the last,) Shall her first speech and human voice[11:5] obtain, To sing thy softer numbers o'er again. Thus, into dying poetry, thy Muse Doth full perfection and new life infuse. Each line deserves a laurel, and thy praise Asks not a garland, but a grove of bays; Nor can ours raise thy lasting trophies higher, Who only reach at merit to admire. But I must chide thee, friend: how canst thou be A patron, yet a foe to Poesy?[11:6] For while thou dost this age to verse restore,} Thou dost deprive the next of owning more; }[11:7] And hast so far all future times surpass'd,[11:8] That none dare write: thus, being first and last, All their abortive Muses will suppress, And Poetry, by this increase, grow less.

ON MR. SHERBURNE'S TRANSLATION OF SENECA'S MEDEA, AND VINDICATION OF THE AUTHOR [1647-8].[12:1]

That wise philosopher who had design'd To [th'] life the various passions of the mind, Did wrong'd Medea's jealousy prefer To entertain the Roman theatre; Both to instruct the soul, and please the sight, At once begetting horror and delight. This cruelty thou dost once more express Though in a strange, no less becoming dress; And her revenge hast robb'd of half its pride, To see itself thus by itself outvied, That boldest ages past may say, our times Can speak, as well as act, their highest crimes. Nor was't enough to do his scene this right, But what thou gav'st to us, with equal light Thou wouldst bestow on him, nor wert more just Unto the author's work, than to his dust. Thou dost make good his title, aid his claim, Both vindicate his poem and his name, So shar'st a double wreath; for all that we Unto the poet[12:2] owe, he owes to thee. Though change of tongues stol'n praise to some afford, Thy version hath not borrow'd, but restor'd.