Oh that I knew how all thy lights combine, Seeing not onely how each verse doth shine, This verse marks that, and both do make a motion Starres are poore books, and oftentimes do misse; (The Temple, 27). SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. [Born 1605. Educated at Oxford Grammar School, and at Lincoln College. Wrote a number of plays, and in 1635 published his "Madagascar " and other poems. For his service at the seige of Gloucester was Knighted, 1643. Imprisoned in Cowes Castle, Isle of Wight, 1650. Published part of “Gondibert " 1651. Opened a theatre in Rutland-house, Charter-house-yard, for the performance of operas, 1656. Died, 1668.] THE CABINET OF DEATH. Which some the monuments of bodies, name; kindes; This to a structure led, long known to fame And call'd, THE MONUMENT OF VANISH'D MINDES. Where, when they thought they saw in well-sought books, Th' assembled souls of all that men held wise, It bred such awfull rev'rence in their looks, As if they saw the bury'd writers rise. Such heaps of written thought (gold of the dead, Which Time does still disperse, but not devour) Made them presume all was from deluge free'd, Which long-liv'd authors writ ere Noah's show'r. They saw Egyptian roles which vastly great, And large as these (for pens were pencils then) Which did distinguish what the Nyle o're-flow'd. Near them, in piles, Chaldean cous'ners lie, There Persian Magi stand; for wisdom prais'd; Long since wise statesmen, now magicians thought: Altars and arts are soon to fiction rais'd, And both would have, that miracles are wrought. In a dark text, these states-men left their mindes Behinde this throng, the talking Greeks had place; Who Nature turn to art, and truth disguise, As skill does native beauty oft deface; With termes they charm the weak, and pose the the wise. Now they the Hebrew, Greek and Roman spie; Who for the peoples ease, yoaked them with law; Whom else, ungovern'd lusts would drive awry; And each his own way frowardly would draw. In little tomes these grave first lawyers lie, So cleerest springs, when troubled, clowdy grow. But here, the soul's chief book did all precede; Our map tow'rds Heav'n; to common crowds deny'd ; Who proudly aim to teach, ere they can read; And all must stray, where each will be a guide. About this sacred little book did stand Unwieldly volumes, and in number great; And long it was since any reader's hand Had reach'd them from their unfrequented seat. For a deep dust (which Time does softly shed, Where only Time does come) their covers bare; On which grave spyders, streets of webbs had spread; Subtle, and slight, as the grave writers were. In these, Heav'n's holy fire does vainly burn; These are the old polemicks, long since read, And shut by Astragon; who thought it just, They, like the authors (truth's tormentors) dead, Should lie unvisited, and lost in dust. Here the Arabian's gospel open lay, (Men injure truth, who fiction nicely hide) Where they the monks audacious stealths survey, From the world's first, and greater second guide. |