TO
My worthy Friend
Mr. William Davenant; upon his
Poem of Madagascar, which he writ
to the most Illustrions Prince
Rupert.
html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }I am compell'd by your commands to write
I'th Frontis-peece of this, and sure I might
With quaint conceits, here to the World set forth
The merit of the Poem, and your worth;
Had I well fancy'd reasons to begin,
And a choyce Mould, to cast good verses in:
But wanting these, what pow'r (alas) have I
To write of any thing? will men rely
On my opinion? which in Verse, or Prose,
Hath just that credit, which we give to those
That sagely whisper, secrets of the Court,
Having but Lees, for Essence, from Report.
And that's the knowledge which belongs to mee;
For by what's said, I guesse at Poetrie:
As when I heare them read strong-lines, I cry
Th'are rare, but cannot tell you rightly why:
And now I finde this quality was it,
That made some Poet eite mee for a wit:
Now God forgive him for that huge mistake!
If hee did know, but with what paines I make
A Verse, hee'ld pittie then my wretched case;
For at the birth of each, I twist my Face,
As if I drew a Tooth; I blot, and write,
Then looke as pale, as some that goe to fight:
With the whole Kennell of the Alphabet,
I hunt sometimes an houre, one Rime to get:
What I approv'd of once, I streight deny,
Like an unconstant Prince, then give the lye
To my owne invention, which is so poore,
As here I'de kisse your hands, and say no more;
Had I not seene a childe with Si•ors cut,
A folded Paper, unto which was put
More chance, than skill, yet when you open it,
You'd thinke it had beene done, by Art and Wit:
So I (perhaps) may light upon some straine,
Which may in this your good opinion gaine;
And howsoever, if it be a plot,
You may be certaine that in this, y'have got
A foyle to set your Jewell off, which comes
From Madagascar, scenting of rich gummes;
Before the which, my lay conceits will smell,
Like an abortive Chick, destroy'd i'th shell:
Yet something I must say, may it prove fit;
I'le doe the best I can; and this is it.
What lofty fancie was't possest your braine,
And caus'd you soare into so high a straine!
Did all the Muses joyne, to make this Peece
Excell what wee have had, from Romo, or Greece?
Or did you strive, to leave it as a Friend
To speake your prayses, when there is an end
Of your mortalitie? If you did so,
En•y will then, scarce finde you out a Foe:
But let me tell you (Friend) the heightning came,
From the reflection of Prince Rupert's name;
Whose glorious Genius cast into your soule,
Divine conceits, such as are fit t'inroule,
In great Apollo's court, there to remaine
For future ages to transcribe againe:
For such a Poem, in so sweet a stile,
As yet, was never landed on this Isle:
And could I speake your prayses at each Pore,
Twere little for the worke; it merits more.
Endimion Porter.