The Poet. 1657

WHoe're reads Cleveland (Leader of the Pack)
Carouzes Essences, and sp'rit of Sack.
For what he drank, it was for publick use;
And, in his Brains, he did preserve the Iuyce.
Where heated in his Head (that Chymic Still)
Wits-Essence flow'd fro' th' Spout of his rich Quill.
The Sun thus moisture sucks, and after pours
From cloudy Limbecks all the fruitful showers.
His wit was universal: like the Sun,
It gilded every thing it look'd upon.
Some (as poor I) rich Subjects do debase;
He (like great Monarchs) did the poorest grace:
By his rare faculty our Times were mov'd
To think that barren Forests might b' improv'd.
Each matter hits aright to his desire;
His conqu'ring flame converted all to fire.
The highest things did to his fancy stoop;
The Scythian so proud Bajazet did coop.
His wit was free, not to set-rules confin'd;
But clear, and ripening like the Summer-Wind.
Pleasure and profit he from thence did bring;
As it makes Corn to grow, and Flowers to spring.
He made the Company where 'ere he came;
And warm'd the coolness, or else quencht the flame.
Nor did he owe one help to any man,
Like those first Heroes who all Arts began.
His thriving thoughts no Foreign Aids did need,
But on their fruitful Soyl alone did feed.
He ne'r the way of our new Rhymers chose,
In racking, or (at best) Translating prose.
To force his Fancy he did never use,
Like some who ravish an unwilling Muse,
Was big with thought, yet happy in his choice,
Like the smooth'd tuning of a nat'ral Voice.
The Subject known, he did the humours hit;
First chose the stuff, then did the Ribbons fit.
His Fancies jostled, were together prest;
Puzzled he was to chuse, not make the best.
His Refuse would inrich us all; the poor
Thrive thus by raking at the rich Man's door.
He was more than us all! Imagine what
He could say of himself, and Cleveland's that.