Might but this slender offering of mine,
Croud midst the sacred burden of thy shrine,
The neere acquaintance with thy greater name
Might stile me Wit, and privilege my Fame
But I've no such ambition, nor dare sue
For the least Legacy of Wit, as due
I come not t'offend duty, and transgresse
Affection, nor with bold presumption presse,
Midst those close mourners, whose nigh kin in verse,
Hath made the nere attendance of Thy herse,
I come in duty, not in pride, to show
Not what I have in store, but what I owe.
Nor shall My folly wrong thy Fame, for we
Prize by the want of Wit, and losse of Thee.
As when the wearied Sunne hath stolne to rest,
And darkeness made the worlds unwelcome guest,
We grovelling captives of the night, yet may
With fire and candle beget light, not day:
Now he whose name in Poetry controules,
Goes to converse with more refined Soules,
Like countrey Gazers in amaze we sit,
Admirers of this great Eclipse in Wit,
Reason and Wit We have to shew us Men
But no hereditary beame of Ben,
Our knock't inventions may beget a sparke,
Which faints at th'least resistance of the darke,
Thine like the Fires high element was pure,
And like the same made not to burne, but cure,
When thy enraged Muse did chide o'th stage,
'Twas to reforme, not to abuse the Age,
But th'art requited ill, to have thy herse,
Stain'd by prophaner Parricides in verse;
Who make mortality, a guilt, and scould,
Meerely because Thou'dst offer to be old,
'Twas too unkinde a slighting of Thy name
To thinke a ballad could confute Thy Fame,
Let's but peruse their Libels, and they'le be,
But arguments they understood not thee,
Nor I'st disgrace, that in Thee through age spent,
'Twas thought a crime not to be excellent:
For Me, Ile in such reverence hold thy Fame,
Ile but by Invocation use Thy Name,
Be thou propitious, Poetry shall know,
No Deity but Thee to whom I'le owe.

HEN. COVENTRY

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