  When I was prevail'd upon to make a Fourth Publication of these Poems with a great many Additions, it was told me, That without a Preface the Book would be unfashionable; Universal Custom had made it a Debt, and in this Age the Bill of Fare was as necessary as the Entertainment. To be Civil therefore, and to Comply with Expectation, instead of an elaborate Harangue in Commendation of the Art in general, or what, and what Qualifications go to the making up of a Poet in particular, and without such artificial Imbellishments as use to be the Ornament of Prefaces, as Sayings of Philosophers, Ends of Verses, Greek, Latin, Hungarian, French, Welch, or Italian, Be it known unto the Reader, That in my poor Opinion Poetry has a very near Resemblance to the modern Experiment of the Ambling-Saddle; It's a good Invention for smoothing the Trott of Prose; That's the Mechanical use of it. But Physically it gives present Ease to the Pains of the Mind, contracted by violent Surfeit of either good or bad Usage in the World. To be serious, 'tis an Innocent Help to Sham a Man's time when it lies on his hands and his Fancy can relish nothing else. I speak but my own Experience; when any Accident hath either pleas'd or vex'd me beyond my power of expressing either my Satisfaction or Indignation in downright Prose, I found it seasonable for Rhiming; and I believe from what follows it may be discern'd when 'twas Fair Weather, when Changeable, and when the Quicksilver fell down to Storm and Tempest. As to the Measures observ'd by me, I always took a peculiar delight in the Pindarique strain, and that for two Reasons, First, it gave me a liberty now and then to correct the saucy forwardness of a Rhime, and to lay it aside till I had a mind to admit it; And secondly, if my Sense fell at any time too short for my Stanza, (and it will often happen so in Versifying) I had then opportunity to fill it up with a Metaphor little to the purpose, and (upon occasion) to run that Metaphor stark mad into an Allegory, a practice very frequent and of admirable use amongst the Moderns, especially the Nobless of the Faculty. But in good earnest, as to the Subjects, which came in my way to write upon, I must declare that I have chosen only such as might be treated within the Rules of Decency, and without offence either to Religion or good Manners. The Caution I receiv'd (by Tradition) from the Incomparable Mr. Cowley, and him I must ever acknowledge but to imitate, if any of the ensuing Copies may deserve the name of Good or Indifferent. I have not vanity enough to prescribe how a Muse ought to be Courted, and I want leisure to borrow from some Treatises I have seen, which look like so many Academies of Complements for that purpose. I have known a man, who when he was about to write would screw his face into more disguises than Scaramuccio, or a Quaker at a Meeting when his Turn came to mount; his breast heav'd, his hair stood on end, his eyes star'd, and the whole man was disorder'd; and truly when he had done, any body at first reading would conclude that at the time he made them he was possess'd with an evil Spirit. Another that seem'd like Nostradamus (when the Whim took him in the head to Prophesie,) he sate upon his Divining Tripos, his elbow on his knee, his Lamp by his side, all the avenues of light stopp'd, full of expectation when the little faint flames should steal in through a crevice of the Shutters; This Gentleman indeed writ extreme Melancholy Madrigals. I have had the happiness to hear of a Third too, whose whole life was Poetical, he was a Walking Poem, and his way was this; finding that the fall of the Leaf was already upon him, and prudently foreseeing that in the Winter of his old Age he might possibly want Fodder, he carry'd always about him one of Raimund Lully's Repositories, a piece of Mathematical Paper, and in what Company soever he came, the Spoon was always ready for the Civet-Cat, nothing scap'd him that fell from a Wit: At night his custom was to digest all that he had pirated that Day, under proper Heads; This was his Arsenal, his inexhaustible Magazine; so that upon occasion he had no more to do, than to give a snap, or two to his Nails; a rub or two upon the sutures of his Head, to turn over his Hint-Book, and the Matter was at hand, his business (after that piece of Legerdemain) was only Tacking, and Tagging: I never saw but One of this Author's Compositions, and really It troubled me, because It put me in mind, how much time I had mispent in Coffee-Houses, for there was nothing in It, but what I could find a Father for There; Nay, (with a little recollection,) a man might name most of the Birds from whence he had pluckt his Feathers. Some there are that Beseech, Others that Hector their Muses: Some that Diet their Pegasus, give him his Heats and Ayrings for the Course; Others that endeavour to slop up his broken wind with Medicinal Ale and Bisquet; But these for the most part are men of Industry; Rhiming is their proper Business, they are fain to labour hard, and use much Artifice for a poor Livelihood, I wish 'em good Trading. I profess I never had design to be incorporated into the Society; my utmost End was merely for Diversion of my self and a few Friends whom I very well love; and if the question should be ask'd why these Productions are expos'd, I may truly say, I could not help it; One unlucky Copy, like a Bell-weather, stole from me in to the Common, and the rest of the Flock took their opportunity to leave the Enclosure. If I might be proud of any thing, it should be the first Copy of the Book, but therein I had the greatest advantage given me that any Noble Subject could afford. And so much for Preface and Poetry, till some very powerful Star shall over-rule my present Resolution. To the Reader. As in some other cases, I have thought it best to keep the original arrangement of capitals, type-differences, &c., here. The poems are printed, like the greater part of the collection, in modern form, but with no important alterations unnoticed.
On the Excellent Poems of my most Worthy
Friend, Mr. Thomas Flatman. You happy issue of a happy wit, As ever yet in charming numbers writ, Welcome into the light, and may we be Worthy so happy a posterity. We long have wish'd for something excellent; But ne'er till now knew rightly what it meant: For though we have been gratified, 'tis true, From several hands with things both fine and new, The wits must pardon me, if I profess, 10That till this time the over-teeming press Ne'er set out Poesy in so true a dress: Nor is it all, to have a share of wit, There must be judgement too to manage it; For Fancy's like a rough, but ready horse, Whose mouth is govern'd more by skill than force; Wherein (my friend) you do a maistry own, If not particular to you alone; Yet such at least as to all eyes declares Your Pegasus the best performs his airs. 20Your Muse can humour all her subjects so, That as we read we do both feel and know; And the most firm impenetrable breast With the same passion that you write's possest. Your lines are rules, which who shall well observe Shall even in their errors praise deserve: The boiling youth, whose blood is all on fire, Push'd on by vanity, and hot desire, May learn such conduct here, men may approve And not excuse, but even applaud his love. 30Ovid, who made an art of what to all Is in itself but too too natural, Had he but read your verse, might then have seen The style of which his precepts should have been, And (which it seems he knew not) learnt from thence To reconcile frailty with innocence. The love you write virgins and boys may read, And never be debauch'd but better bred; For without love, beauty would bear no price, And dullness, than desire's a greater vice: 40Your greater subjects with such force are writ So full of sinewy strength, as well as wit, That when you are religious, our divines May emulate, but not reprove your lines: And when you reason, there the learned crew May learn to speculate, and speak from you. You no profane, no obscene language use To smut your paper, or defile your Muse. Your gayest things, as well express'd as meant, Are equally both quaint and innocent. 50But your Pindaric Odes indeed are such That Pindar's lyre from his own skilful touch Ne'er yielded such an harmony, nor yet Verse keep such time on so unequal feet. So by his own generous confession Great Tasso by Guarini was outdone: And (which in copying seldom does befall) The ectype's better than th' original. But whilst your fame I labour to send forth, By the ill-doing it I cloud your worth, 60In something all mankind unhappy are, And you as mortal too must have your share; 'Tis your misfortune to have found a friend, Who hurts and injures where he would commend. But let this be your comfort, that your bays Shall flourish green, maugre an ill-couch'd praise. You happy, &c.] 16 Cotton may have had several reasons for keeping the form 'maistry'—at any rate it should certainly be kept here, though 'mastery' with or without apostrophated e would fill the verse properly. 50 'Pindarique' or 'Pindariqu'' in the original throughout the Volume. 57 ectype] Not uncommon even later for 'copy'. This piece is in the original about half italics, which, for the most part, express no kind of emphasis. The next is almost entirely free from them, and the difference continues throughout the Commendatory Poems in such a fashion as to show that they were used on no principle at all. Flatman's own text has very few, outside of proper names.
To my Friend Mr Thomas Flatman, upon the
Publication of his Poems. As when a Prince his standard does erect, And calls his subjects to the field, From such as early take his side, And readily obedience yield, He is instructed where he may suspect, And where he safely may confide: So, mighty friend, That you may see A perfect evidence of loyalty, 10No business I pretend; From all th' incumbrances of human life, From nourishing the sinful people's strife, And the increasing weaknesses of age. II. Domestic care, the mind's incurable disease, I am resolv'd I will forget. Ah! could I hope the restless pain Would now entirely cease, And never more return again, My thoughts I would in other order set; 20By more than protestations I would show, Not the sum total only of the debt, But the particulars of all I owe. III. This I would do: but what will our desire avail When active heat and vigour fail? 'Tis well thou hast more youthful combatants than I, Right able to protect thy immortality: If envy should attack thy spotless name (And that attacks the best of things And into rigid censure brings 30The most undoubted registers of fame), Their fond artillery let them dispense, Piercing wit and murd'ring eloquence, Noble conceit and manly sense, Charming numbers let 'em shine And dazzle dead in ev'ry line The most malicious of thy foes, Though Hell itself should offer to oppose; I (thy decrepit subject) only can resign The little life of art is left, to ransom thine: 40Fumbling's as bad in poetry, And as ridiculous, as 'tis in gallantry: But if a dart I may prevent, Which at my friend's repute was meant, Let them then direct at me; By dying in so just a war, I possibly may share In thy infallible eternity. IV. But, dearest friend (Before it be too late), 50Let us a while expostulate, What heat of glory call'd you on, Your learnÈd empire to extend Beyond the limits of your own dominion? At home, you were already crown'd with bays: Why foreign trophies do you seek to raise? Poets arcanas have of government, And tho' the homagers of your own continent Out of a sense of duty do submit, Yet public print a jealousy creates, 60And intimates a laid design Unto the neighb'ring potentates. Now into all your secret arts they pry, And weigh each hint by rules of policy. Offensive leagues they twine, In councils, rotas, and cabals they sit, Each petty burgess thinks it fit The Corporation should combine Against the Universal Monarchy of Wit, And straight declare for quite abjuring it. V. 70Hence then must you prepare for an invasion: Tho' not from such as are reclaim'd by education; In the main points all European wits agree, All allow order, art, and rules of decency, And to be absolutely perfect, ne'er was yet A beauty such, or such a wit. I fear the Pagan and the barbarous, A nation quite Antipodes to us; The infidel unletter'd crew (I mean) Who call that only wit, 80Which is indeed but the reverse of it; Creatures in whom civility ne'er shone, But (unto Nature's contradiction) It is their glory to be so obscene, You'd think the legion of th' unclean Were from the swine (to which they were condemn'd) releas'd, And had these verier swine (than them) possess'd. VI. If these should an advantage take And on thy fame a depredation make, You must submit to the unhappiness; 90These are the common enemies of our belief and art, And by hostility possess'd The world's much greater part: All things with them are measur'd by success: If the battle be not won; If the author do not sell; Into their dull capacities it will not sink, They cannot with deliberation think How bravely the commander led them on, No nor wherein the book was written well: 100When ('tis a thing impossible to do) He cannot find his army courage (Sir), nor you Your readers, learning, wit, and judgement too. 103 I have not identified Robert Thompson, LL.D., but I shall always think of him as author of some of the worst Pindaric of his time, which is saying a great deal.
To my Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman, on the
Publishing of these his Poems. Let not (my friend) th' incredulous sceptic man Dispute what potent Art and Nature can! Let him believe, the birds that did bemoan The loss of Zeuxis' grapes in querulous tone, Were silenc'd by a painted dragon, found A Telesme to restrain their chatt'ring sound, And that one made a mistress could enforce A neighing sigh, ev'n from a stallion horse! Let old Timanthes now unveil the face 10Of his Atrides, thou'lt give sorrow grace! Now may Parrhasius let his curtain stand! And great Protogenes take off his hand! For all that lying Greece and Latium too Have told us of, thou (only thou) mak'st true. And all the miracles which they could show, Remain no longer faith; but science now. Thou dost those things that no man else durst do, Thou paint'st the lightning, and the thunder too! The soul and voice! 20Thou'lt make Turks, Jews, with Romanists consent, To break the second great Commandement: And them persuade an adoration giv'n In picture, will as grateful be to Heav'n As one in metre. Th' art is in excess; But yet thy ingenuity makes it less. With pen and pencil thou dost all outshine, In speaking picture, Poesy divine. Poets, creators are! You made us know Those are above, and dread those are below; 30But 'tis no wonder you such things can dare, That painter, poet, and a prophet are. The stars themselves think it no scorn to be Plac'd, and directed in their way by thee. Thou know'st their virtue, and their situation, The fate of years, and every great mutation; With the same kindness let them look on Earth, As when they gave thee first thy happy birth! The sober Saturn aspects Cynthia bright, 40Resigning hers, to give us thy new light. The gentle Venus rose with Mercury (Presage of softness in thy Poesy), And Jove and Mars in amicable Trine Do still give spirit to thy polish'd line. Thou mayst do what thou wilt without control: Only thyself and Heav'n can paint thy soul. Let not, &c.] 6 The form Telesme, which may be allowed its italics, reproduces the (late) Greek t??esa, instead of the Spanish-Arabic 'talisman'. 22 giv'n] Orig. 'giv'd', but correct in previous (1682) edition. 39 Both editions have a comma at 'aspects', which obscures the sense. 'Aspect' is made a transitive verb in the sense of the astrological substantive = 'arranges his situation in regard to the Moon so as to make her resign', &c. 1686 'To' for 'The', wrongly. 46 It would be a shame to rob Francis Barnard of the italics which distinguish the entire line in the original. He died on February 9, 1698, and was buried at St. Botolph's, Bishopsgate.
To his esteemed Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman,
Upon the Publishing of his Poems. Your Poems (friend) come on the public stage In a debauch'd and a censorious age: Where nothing now is counted standard wit, But what's profane, obscene, or's bad as it. For our great wits, like gallants of the times (And such they are), court only those loose rhymes, Which, like their misses, patch'd and painted are; But scorn what virtuous is and truly fair; Such as your Muse is, who with careful art 10For all but such, hath wisely fram'd a part. One while (methinks) under some gloomy shade, I see the melancholy lover laid, Pleasing himself in that his pensive fit With what you have on such occasion writ. Another while (methinks) I seem to hear 'Mongst those, who sometimes will unbend their care. And steal themselves out from the busy throng, Your pleasant Songs in solemn consort sung. Again (methinks) I see the grave Divine 20Lay by his other books, to look on thine, And from thy serious and divine Review See what our duty is, and his own too. Yet, worthy friend, you can't but guess what doom Is like to pass on what you've writ, by some; But there are others, now your book comes forth, Who (I am sure) will prize it as 'tis worth, Who know it fully fraught with staple ware, Such as the Works of the great Cowley are, And 'mongst our rarest English poems, thine 30Next unto his immortally shall shine. Your Poems, &c.] 14 i.e., no doubt, The Desperate Lover (v. inf. p. 336). 18 consort] As so often = 'concert'. 21 divine Review] The poem to Sancroft (inf., p. 301). 31 Richard Newcourt is discoverable and throws a little more light on Flatman's circle of acquaintance. He was a topographer, and drew a map of London published in 1658 by Faithorne the elder (v. inf.).
To my Worthy Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman,
Upon the Publishing of his Poems. Rude and unpolish'd as my lines can be, I must start forth into the world with thee. That which, yet private, did my wonder raise, Now 'tis made public challenges my praise: Such miracles thy charming verse can do, Where'er it goes, it draws me with it too. This is a kind of birthday to thy Muse! Transported with delight I cannot choose But bid her Welcome to the Light, and tell, 10How much I value what is writ so well; Tho' thou reap'st no advantage by my rhyme, More than a taper helps the day to shine. Thus in dull pomp does th' empty coach attend To pay respect to some departed friend! The difference of regard in this does lie, That honours dust, mine that which cannot die: For what can blast the labours of thy pen, While wit and virtue are allow'd by men? Thou entertain'st the world with such a feast, 20So cleanly and so elegantly drest, So stor'd with laudable varieties As may a modest appetite suffice; Whoever is thy guest is sure to find Something or other that may please his mind. Sometimes in pious flames thy Muse aspires Her bosom warm'd with supernat'ral fires; In noble flights with Pindar, soars above; Dallies sometimes with not-indecent love, Thence down into the grave does humbly creep, 30And renders Death desirable as Sleep. The debonair, the melancholy here Find matter for their mirth, ease for their care. Since such provision's made for all that come, He must be squeamish that goes empty home; If these refections cannot do him good, 'Tis 'cause his stomach's vicious, not the food. Rude and unpolished, &c.] 4 public] Orig. 'publique'. So often 'Pindarique', and sometimes '-iq''. 37 This Knollys is again unknown to me.
To the Author on his excellent Poems. I. Strange magic of thy wit and style, Which to their griefs mankind can reconcile! Whilst thy Philander's tuneful voice we hear Condoling our disastrous state, Touch'd with a sense of our hard fate, We sigh perhaps, or drop a tear, But he the mournful song so sweetly sings, That more of pleasure than regret it brings. With such becoming grief 10The Trojan chief Troy's conflagration did relate, Whilst ev'n the suffrers in the fire drew near And with a greedy ear Devour'd the story of their own subverted state. II. Kind Heav'n (as to her darling son) to thee A double portion did impart, A gift of Painting and of Poesy: But for thy rivals in the painter's art, If well they represent, they can effect 20No more, nor can we more expect. But more than this thy happy pencils give; Thy draughts are more than representative, For, if we'll credit our own eyes, they live! Ah! worthy friend, couldst thou maintain the state Of what with so much ease thou dost create, We might reflect on death with scorn! But pictures, like th' originals, decay! Of colours those consist, and these of clay; Alike compos'd of dust, to dust alike return! III. 30Yet 'tis our happiness to see Oblivion, Death, and adverse Destiny Encounter'd, vanquish'd, and disarm'd by thee. For if thy pencils fail, Change thy artillery And thou'rt secure of victory. Employ thy quill and thou shall still prevail. The Grand Destroyer, greedy Time, reveres Thy Fancy's imag'ry, and spares The meanest thing that bears 40Th' impression of thy pen; Tho' coarse and cheap their natural metal were, Stamp'd with thy verse he knows th' are sacred then, He knows them by that character to be Predestinate and set apart for immortality. IV. If native lustre in thy themes appear, Improv'd by thee it shines more clear: Or if thy subject's void of native light, Thy Fancy need but dart a beam To gild thy theme, 50And make the rude mass beautiful and bright. Thou vary'st oft thy strains, but still Success attends each strain: Thy verse is always lofty as the hill, Or pleasant as the plain. How well thy Muse the Pastoral Song improves! Whose nymphs and swains are in their loves As innocent, and yet as kind as doves. But most She moves our wonder and delight, When She performs her loose Pindaric flight, 60Oft to their outmost reach She will extend Her tow'ring wings to soar on high, And then by just degrees descend: Oft in a swift strait course She glides, Obliquely oft the air divides, And oft with wanton play hangs hov'ring in the sky. V. Whilst sense of duty into my artless Muse Th' ambition would infuse To mingle with those Nymphs that homage pay, And wait on thine in her triumphant way, 70Defect of merit checks her forward pride, And makes her dread t' approach thy chariot side; For 'twere at least a rude indecency (If not profane) t' appear At this solemnity, Crown'd with no laurel wreath (as others are); But this we will presume to do, At distance, to attend the show, Officious to gather up The scatter'd bays, if any drop 80From others' temples, and with those A plain plebeian coronet compose. This, as your livery, she'd wear, to hide Her nakedness, not gratify her pride! Such was the verdant dress Which the Offending Pair did frame Of platted leaves, not to express Their pride i'th' novel garb, but to conceal their shame. 42 'th'' for 'they' is an instance, good in its badness, of the uglier apostrophation. 63 strait] So both edd.: but as often for 'straight'. 75 'Crown'd with no laurel wreath (as others are)' should be a comfort to the poetaster. For Nahum had only to wait less than twenty years and he was crowned in the very lifetime of the discrowned 'other' Dryden, who wore the wreath at this time, and who meanwhile had done him the enormous honour of admitting him to collaboration in Absalom and Achitophel. Tate has other verses addressed to Flatman; see his Poems, p. 67.
To my dear Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman,
Upon the Publication of his Poems. Pindaric Ode. I. Within the haunted thicket, where The feather'd choristers are met to play; And celebrate with voices clear, And accents sweet, the praise of May: The ouzel, thrush, and speckled lark, And Philomel, that loves the dawn and dark: These (the inspired throng) In numbers smooth and strong Adorn their noble theme with an immortal song, 10While woods and vaults, the brook and neighbouring hill, Repeat the varied close and the melodious trill. II. Here feast your ears, but let their eye Wander, and see one of the lesser fry Under a leaf, or on a dancing twig, Ruffle his painted feathers, and look big, Perk up his tail, and hop between The boughs; by moving, only to be seen, Perhaps his troubled breast he prunes, As he doth meditate his tunes: 20At last (compos'd) his little head he rears, Towards (what he strives to imitate) the spheres; And chirping then begins his best, Falls on to pipe among the rest; Deeming that all's not worth a rush, Without his whistle from the bush. III. Th' harmonious sound did reach my ear, That echo'd thy clear name, Which all must know, who e'er did hear Of Cowley or Orinda's fame; 30I heard the Genius, with surprising grace, Would visit us with his fair offspring, gay As is the morning spring in May; But fairer much, and of immortal race. IV. Delighted greatly, as I list'ning stood, The sound came from each corner of the wood; It both the shrubs and cedars shak'd, And my drowsy Muse awak'd; Strange that the sound should be so shrill, That had its passage through a quill. 40Then I resolv'd thy praises to rehearse, The wonders of thy pen, among the crowd Of thy learn'd friends that sing so loud: But 'twas not to be sung, or reach'd in verse. By my weak notes, scarce to be heard, Or if they could, not worth regard; Desisting therefore I must only send My very kind well wishes to my friend. Within the haunted, &c.] 9 theme] So spelt here; 'theam' elsewhere—a fresh pair of instances from the same book of the absurdity of keeping bad spelling for its own sake. 48 Octavian Pulleyn was probably the son of Octavian Pulleyn, warden of the Stationers' Company; he published Woodford's Paraphrase of the Psalms.
|
  |
