COMMENDATORY VERSES. 15 



But then what make I here, to write of that, 

 I'm unskill'd in, and talk I know not what ? 

 And that in verse too? 'Tis an itch we've got, 

 We must be scribbling whether learn'd or not. 

 Nay, here's some reason for't ; the form we see 

 Clubbing with matter, makes a thing to be. 

 And trains of livery'd servitors, we know, 

 Makes not a prince, but signifies he's so. 

 Ciphers to figures join'd, make sums ; and we 

 Make something, Friend, when we are join'd to thee. 



Yet I shall hardly praise, or like thy skill ; 

 For we're all prone enough to catch and kill ; 

 Thou need'st not make an art on't : they that are 

 Once listed in the new saint's calendar, 

 Do't as they pray and preach by inspiration ; 

 No heathen rules, or old premeditation. 

 Nor antichristian acts ; who reads our story. 

 Will find we do't without thy directoiy. 



But when I think with what a pleasing art 

 Thou dost thy rules both practise and impart, 

 I am delighted too, as well as taught ; 

 And fishes leap for joy when they are caught : 

 I could unman myself, and wish to be 

 A fish, so that I might be took by thee. 

 Blest then are thy companions, who with thee 

 Participate of such felicity, 

 Such undisturb'd, such dangerless delight, 

 That does at once both satiate and invite. 

 Whence more safe joy, more true contentment springs 

 Than from the courts of those gay pageants, kings 

 Or great king-riders, who still hurried are 

 With those grand tyrants, business and care ; 

 And fling upon base acts, and filthy vice, 

 Spurr'd on by ambition and by avarice. 



Whilst by some gliding river thou sit'st down, 

 Thy mind's thy kingdom, and content's thy crown, 

 Conversing with the silent fish, and when 

 Thou'rt killing them, thou think'st of once dead men ; 

 And from oblivion and the grave set'st free 

 Names, whom thou robest with immortality. 

 For he that reads thy Wotton and thy Donne 

 Can't but believe a resurrection ; 

 And spite of envy, this encomium give. 

 By Thee fish die; by Thee dead friends revive. 



Alex. Brome.* 



* One of the twelve adopted sons of Ben Jonson, and the author of The Cunning 

 Lovers, a Tragedy, -An; Songs, and other Poems, x(Xn; axA Covent Garden Drollery, 

 1672, &c. 



