Classic Poem

A Panegyrick to the best Picture of Friendship Mr. Pet. Lilly.

I F Pliny Lord High Treasurer of all
Natures exchequer shuffled in this our ball;
Pincture , her richer Rival, did admire,
And cry'd she wrought with more almighty fire,
That judg'd the unnumbered issue of her Scrowl,
Infinite and various as her Mother Soul,
That contemplation into matter brought,
Body'd Idaea's , and could form a thought:
Why do I pause to couch the Cataract,
And the grosse pearls from our dull eyes abstract?
That pow'rful Lilly , now awakened, we
This new Creation may behold by thee.
To thy victorious pencil, all that Eyes
And minds can reach, do bow; the Deities
Bold Poets first but feign'd, you do, and make,
And from your awe they our Devotion take.
Your beauteous Pallet first defin'd Loves Queen,
And made her in her heav'nly colours seen;
You strung the Bow of the Bandite her Son,
And tipp'd his Arrowes with Religion.
Neptune , as unknown as his Fish might dwell,
But that you seat him in his throne of Shell.
The thunderers Artillery, and brand
You fancied Rome in his fantastick hand.
And the pale frights, the pains and fears of Hell,
First from your sullen Melancholy fell.
Who cleft th' infernal Dog's loath'd head in three,
And spun out Hydra 's fifty necks? by thee
As prepossess'd w' enjoy th' Elizian plain,
Which but before was flatter'd in our brain.
Who ere yet view'd Airs child invisible,
A hollow Voice, but in thy subtile skill?
Faint stamm'ring Eccho , you so draw, that we
The very repercussion do see.
Cheat Hocus-pocus -Nature an Essay
O' th' Spring affords us, Praesto and away;
You all the year do chain her, and her fruits,
Roots to their Beds, and flowers to their Roots.
Have not mine eyes feasted i' th' frozen Zone ,
Upon a fresh new-grown Collation
Of Apples, unknown sweets, that seem'd to me
Hanging to tempt as on the fatal Tree;
So delicately limn'd I vow'd to try
My appetite impos'd upon my Eye.
You Sir alone, Fame and all-conqu'ring Rime,
Files the set teeth of all devouring time.
When Beauty once thy vertuous paint hath on,
Age needs not call her to Vermilion;
Her beams nere shed or change like th' hair of day,
She scatters fresh her everlasting Ray;
Nay, from her ashes her fair Virgin fire
Ascends, that doth new massacres conspire,
Whilst we wipe off the num'rous score of years,
And do behold our Grandsires as our peers,
With the first Father of our House, compare
We do the features of our new-born Heir;
For though each coppied a Son, they all
Meet in thy first and true Original.
Sacred Luxurious! what Princesse not
But comes to you to have her self begot?
As when first man was kneaded, from his side
Is born to's hand a ready made up Bride.
He husband to his issue then doth play,
And for more Wives remove the obstructed way:
So by your Art you spring up in two moons
What could not else be form'd by fifteen Suns;
Thy Skill doth an'mate the prolifick flood,
And thy red Oyl assimilates to blood.
Where then when all the world pays its respect,
Lies our transalpine barbarous Neglect?
When the chast hands of pow'rful Titian ,
Had drawn the Scourges of our God and Man,
And now the top of th' Altar did ascend,
To crown the heav'nly piece with a bright end;
Whilst he who to seven Languages gave Law,
And always like the Sun his Subjects saw,
Did in his Robes Imperial and gold,
The basis of the doubtful Ladder hold.
O Charls ! A nobler monument then that,
Which thou thine own Executor wert at.
When to our huffling Henry there complain'd
A grieved Earl, that thought his honor stain'd;
Away (frown'd he) for your own safeties, hast,
In one cheap hour ten Coronets I'l cast:
But Holbeen 's noble and prodigious worth,
Onely the pangs of an whole Age brings forth.
Henry ! a word so princely saving said,
It might new raise the ruines thou hast made.
O sacred Peincture ! that dost fairly draw
What but in Mists deep inward Poets saw;
'Twixt thee and an Intelligence no ods,
That art of privy Council to the Gods,
By thee unto our eyes they do prefer
A stamp of their abstracted Character;
Thou that in frames eternity dost bind,
And art a written and a body'd mind;
To thee is Ope the Functo o' th' Abysse,
And its conspiracy detected is;
Whilest their Cabal thou to our sense dost show,
And in thy square paint'st what they threat below.
Now my best Lilly let's walk hand in hand,
And smile at this un-understanding land;
Let them their own dull counterfeits adore,
Their Rainbow-cloaths admire, and no more;
Within one shade of thine more substance is
Than all their varnish'd Idol-Mistresses:
Whilst great Vasari and Vermander shall
Interpret the deep mystery of all,
And I unto our modern Picts shall show,
What due renown to thy fair Art they owe,
In the delineated lives of those,
By whom this everlasting Lawrel grows:
Then if they will not gently apprehend,
Let one great blot give to their fame an end;
WhilsT no Poetick flower their Herse doth dresse,
But perish they and their Effigies.