Epistle XLVIII. To Colonel Lovelace on his Poems

SO through the Chaos crept the first-born ray,
That was not yet grown up to be a day,
And form'd the World; as do your powerful rhythmes,
Through the thick darkness of these Versless times:
These antingenius daies, this boy strous age,
Where there dwels nought of Poetry but rage:
Just so crept learning forth the rav'nous fire
Of the Schismatick Goths and Vandals ire:
As do in these more barbareus daies our times,
When what was meant for ruine, but refines.
Why may n't we hope for Restauration, when
ancient Poets Towns, the new raise men;
The tale of Orpheus and Amphion be
Both solid truths with this Mythology?
For though you make not stones and trees to move;
Yet men more sensless you provoke to love.
I can't but think, spite of the filth that's hurl'd
Over this small Ench'ridion of the World,
A day will break, when we again may see
Wits like themselves, club in an Harmony:
Though Pulpiteers can't do it, yet 'tis fit
Poets have more success, because more wit.
Their Prose unhing'd the State; why may'nt your (verse
Polish those souls, that were fil'd rough by theirs?
Go on, and prosper; though I want your skill,
In weighty matters 'tis enough to will.
And now the Reader looks I should help rear
Your glories Trophy, else what make I here?
'Tis not to praise you; for one may as well
Go tell Committees that there is an Hell;
Or tell the World there is a Sun; as praise
Your amorous fancy, which it self can't raise
'Bove Envies reach or flatteries; Ladies love
To kiss those accents; who dares disapprove
What they stile good? our lines, our lives and all,
By their opinions either rise or fall:
Therefore the cause why these are fixed here,
Is livery-like to shew some great man's near:
Let them stand bare, and usher, not commend;
They are not for Encomiums, but t' attend.