Detur Pulchriori: OR, A POEM in the Praise of the Vniversity OF OXFORD.
Et pueri nasum Rhinocerotis hàbent.
Mart. Ep.
Ʋivitur ingenio, caetera mortis erunt.
Ovid.
Anno Dom. 1658.
Patri mihi Charissimo I. V. Haec parerga mea D. D. C. Q.
NOn meus agnoscit Parnassi somnia Phaebus,
Neve Caballina Musa Lavatur aquâ;
Maenadis inspirat sitientes Mente Poetas,
Ebria, nam nunquam Sobria Musa furit.
Sis Genitor mihi Phoebus, erit pro fonte Caballi
Isis, sim Vates Sobrius inde tuus,
Et Filius &c. Philomus [...]
To my most Honoured Schoolmaster.
Sir
IF like a Pythonist I from my Witts
May chance to start, vent Oracles by fitts,
And so be Poet dub'd, know I am one
Not born but made by inspiration,
For from Your influence my Muse begun,
My lines the Paralelies of Your Sun.
And since from the Pindarique Mountain You
Descend, to lend Your hand to us below:
Loe our Inferiour Orbs begin to move,
And act by the Intelligence of Your Love,
And though you can't expect from Pigmey braines
Witt's Garagantuas, Gigantique strains,
How 'ere my Muse (though stretch'd upon the Last
Of an Hyperbole,'s but a Neurospast
Mou'd by Your Candours Mysterious wire)
Inspired, though not with a Delphique fire,
But a pure Vestall flame, contends to raise
Her note, unto the Elah of Your praise,
If you accept these tender spriggs, know she.
Will give You better at Maturity.
Yours &c. Philomusus.
An Apology.
HAve you not seen when Titans glorious ray
Doth peep through th' Azure Welkin, and display
It's Splendent lustre, not alone to those,
Whose faces are more Painted then their cloaths,
Nor yet to those, who with Grandezza bear
Their stately lookes above the Vulgar Sphear;
Noe, no, the humble Sun descends to all,
Glancing with smiles upon the lowest vale;
Even so our Sun, our true Apollo leaves
None in Cimmerian mists, to all he gives
To be his Starres, and have from him their light;
Lest some should set in a perpetuall night.
Well then, Ile shew my selfe to be his Son,
His genuine Son, a boon companion
Of the Aonian sisters, though I see
The Sun of Censure Levelling at me:
Look how he forms his thoughts into a Cone,
And smites me with the sharpest end? anon
He carps, he bites; this quick-ey'd Basilisque
What ere he sees, wounds with an Asterisque:
Hee'l fine, if i'll not cleanse what I have writt
Which shews hee's but the Scavinger of Witt.
To his ingenious Friend F. V.
SInce in so little room Thou hast set forth
Thy Mothers praise, and Her deserved worth,
Which requir'd Volumes, Thee in rank wee'll put
With him who wrote the Iliades in a Nut.
W. C. G [...]
A Poem in the Praise of the University of OXFORD.
Hum! hum! what is't, that doth impede my note
Causing a swelling Squincy in my throat?
Methinks my Wide-boar'd Muse might with her noise
Drown Pistoll-Shott, yea a Granadas vojce,
But since so many Pamphlet bullets fly
About mine ears, 'twill be best Chivalry
To fight it out, and with a valiant pen
Win Oxfords credit from Malignant men.
Dear Mother, though unhallowed lips would stain
with Satyrs flowing from a Wormwood brain
Thy comely feature, with a Viperous strife
Gnawing those bowels that did give them life;
Although they sully Thee, 'twill be their shame,
Thy Honour, and immortalize thy fame,
Though full-mouth'd Cynnicks be in Sent so hott.
Each Black patch Calumny's thy Beauty spott.
The first mouth that Malign's thee is the Clown's,
Whose tongues more thumb'd & sullied, then the Town's,
Or Parish-book, he ne'r doth cease to Yawn
And swallow Solecismes, as smooth as Brawn,
He'd rather be a Page unto his Car,
Or his Swines Guardian, then goe so far
As to a Versity, for none but Vools,
Che swears wil send their Children unto Schools.
More could I name whose Counterpoising tounges
Spit words far more corrupted then their lungs,
But since 'tis not my scope to answer those,
Whose names Donquixoted doe live in prose,
[Page 2] And never knew that Poets only claim
Maugre the teeth of time, aeternall fame,
Then rouse my Muse and with immortall lays
Caroll unto the world fam'd Oxford's praise.
Oxford! the Arsenall of Arts, the Muses
Sole staple, where Apollo onely uses
To Barter, where our half-starv'd Poets buy
Their soaring Pegasus, and mounted fly
Up the Aönian cliffs, the towring mount
Doth make them giddy, 'till th' Castalian fount
Begins to reinspire their spur-gall'd brains,
And add new spirits to their empty veins.
In thee the Grave Logician doth commence
To rant mysterious termes, and fustian sence,
While his Lines cragg'd, and hard to understand
Doe far more baffle then the Devill's hand.
Daring more with his three fork'd mace of late,
Then th' three neck'd Porter of th' Infernall gate
while his amazed Auditours suppose
Some Demogorgon always in the close.
From thee the Politician hath his books,
The Hieroglyphiks of majesti (que) looks.
Of thee Apollo his melodious strains,
His dulced Anthems, sugred Hymnes obtains,
Tyeing with Musi (que) sweeter then the Sphear's
Men madd with aspiration by the ears,
And least injurious tongues fly-blow thy praise,
He will Thee crown with never dying Bayes.
Thou Oyles the Rustique's tounge, and on him showrs
In his Youth's April, and produceth flowrs
Of party-coloured Retorique, he talks
On Stilts, his slippery tongue confus'dly walks,
So he (whose tounge hide-bound before) in sense
Can prate, Imbellished with eloquence.
[Page 3] Again thou teachest Devious Youth to tread
In Vertue's path, and giv'st them hands and head.
Thou giv'st them Heads, from whence Conceptions flow,
High soaring thoughts and not Pestanti (que) low
Thou giv'st them hands to hold Minerva's shield,
From conquered Ignorance to gain the Field.
Wer't not for the, the Milk-sopp-youth would nere
Be moralliz'd nor would he ever bear
His Father's Royall stamp, nor would his age
Admitt of Councell, from the grave and sage
Although the Rustique scornes, it is from thee
He got the rules of right Oeconomy.
Of Thee the Learned Galenist obtains
His knowledge in the Mystery of the veins
And nervs; of late his skill he so inhances
By finding out the blood's Maeandring dances,
That he old nature with Industrious pain
Renews, makes aged Aeson young again.
The Art of numbring doth confess that shee
Endow'd was with the Golden rule by thee.
The skill'd Geometrician who surveighs
With Curious eys the Continent and Seas
Squares by thy rule;
He who at every rise
Waits on Night's fairest Queen with courting eyes,
And who Inamorato-like doth Honour
And Homage pay to those that wait upon her,
To every pinck-ey'd Starre; who swears that he
Will have noe Mistress but a Cassiope,
Doth vow to sacrifice to Thee each year
The stalled Bull, snatch'd from his Hemisphear,
A Quarter of the Hevenly Tupp, what's more,
Hee'l add the Golden fleice, to quit the score,
That still is chalked in his mind, He ows
[Page 4] To Thee, what rarities so er'e he knows,
In lieu of payment therefore will he set
On thy Head Ariadnes coronet,
Hee'l make the Zodiack be thy golden chain,
Aquarius vernall showrs upon Thee rain,
To make thy May more Pregnant, and thy stemm,
Outgoe the Pearles in Flora's Diademm.
The grave Divine, who doth the People aw
Bonarges-like with the Mosaique Law,
Again a Barnabas, who doth dispense
Sweet nunico, of Christ intelligence,
Inspiring with pure Zeale th' amazed Soul,
Making her lave her self then sin more foul,
Says 'tis his Debvoir, 'fore the greyzeyd day
Puts on her Mornings dress, for Thee to pray;
"Great God, Immortall King! cast down an eye,
"On Britains Fountaines, let them never dry;
"Let more especially my Mothers Fountain,
"Be baptiz'd Helicon in Sions Mountain,
"Let it her Honour be t'extoll Thy fame,
"Let all her praise be still to praise thy name.
Loe now my Muse is Jaded, and my quill
Tired, beggs a Vacation, she will
No longer travell in Thy Praises Ocean,
How 'ere shee'l say Amen to the Devotion,
Floreat aeternis Academia Nostra Camaenis.
To the Author.
WIll none none commend Thee? well had I but been
Born at the brink of sacred Hippocrene,
Or were the Muses darling, or might be
An equall sharer in the Daphnean Tree;
I would commend Thee, so that I would raise
An Altar, and would offer to Thy praise
An Hecatomb of verses, and my Pen
If thou wert dead, should make Thee live agen,
T. S. Oxon.
FINIS.