A Palinodie to the honourable Edward Howard, Esq; upon his incomparable British Princes

It is your Pardon, Sir, for which my MuseThrice humbly thus, in form of Paper, sues;For having felt the dead Weight of your Wit,She comes to ask Forgiveness, and submit,Is sorry for her Faults, and, while I write,Mourns in the Black, does Penance in the White:But such is her Belief in your just Candor,She hopes you will not so misunderstand her,To wrest her harmless Meaning to the SenseOf silly Emulation, or Offence.No; your sufficient Wit does still declareItself too amply, they are mad that dareSo vain and senseless a Presumption own,To yoak your vast Parts in comparison.And yet, you might have thought upon a WayT'instruct us, how you'd have us to obey,And not command our Praises, and then blameAll that's too great, or little for your Fame.For who could choose but err, without some TrickTo take your Elevation to a Nick?As he, that was desir'd, upon occasion,To make the Mayor of London an Oration,Desir'd his Lordship's Favour, that he mightTake Measure of his Mouth, to fit it right;So, had you sent a Scantling of your Wit,You might have blam'd us, if it did not fit;But 'tis not just t'impose, and then cry downAll that's unequal to your huge Renown;For he, that writes below your vast Desert,Betrays his own, and not your Want of Art.Praise, like a Robe of State, should not sit closeTo th' Person 'tis made for, but wide and loose,Derives its Comeliness from being unfit,And such have been our Praises of your Wit,Which is so extraordinary, no HeightOf Fancy but your own can do it right;Witness those glorious Poems you have writWith equal Judgment, Learning, Art, and Wit,And those stupendious Discoveries,You've lately made of Wonders in the Skies.For who but from yourself did ever hear,The Sphere of Atoms was the Atmosphere?Who ever shut those Straglers in a Room,Or put a Circle about Vacuum,What should confine those undetermin'd Crowds,And yet extend no further than the Clouds?Whoever could have thought, but you alone,A Sign, and an Ascendant were all one?Or how 'tis possible the Moon should shrowdHer Face, to peep at Mars, behind a Cloud;Since Clouds below are so far distant plac'd,They cannot hinder her from being bare-fac'd?Who ever did a Language so enrich,To scorn all little Particles of Speech?For though they make the Sense clear, yet th' are foundTo be a scurvy Hindrance to the Sound;Therefore you wisely scorn your Stile to humble,Or for the Sense's Sake to wave the Rumble,Had Homer known this Art, h'had ne'er been fainTo use so many Particles in vain,That to no Purpose serve, but (as he hap'sTo want a Syllable) to fill up Gaps.You justly coin new Verbs to pay for those,Which in Construction you o'ersee, and lose:And by this Art do Priscian no WrongWhen you break's Head, for 'tis as broad as long.These are your own Discoveries, which noneBut such a Muse as yours could hit upon,That can in spight of Laws of Art, or RulesMake Things more intricate than all the Schools:For what have Laws of Art to do with you,More than the Laws with honest Men and true?He that's a Prince in Poetry should striveTo cry 'em down, by his Prerogative,And not submit to that, which has no ForceBut o'er Delinquents, and Inferiors.Your Poems will indure to be try'dI' th' Fire like Gold, and come forth purify'd,Can only to Eternity pretend,For they were never writ to any End.All other Books bear an uncertain Rate,But those you write are always sold by Weight,Each Word and Syllable brought to the Scale,And valu'd to a Scruple in the Sale.For, when the Paper's charg'd with your rich Wit,'Tis for all Purposes and Uses fit,Has an abstersive Virtue to make cleanWhatever Nature made in Man obscene.Boys find b'Experiment, no Paper-kite,Without your Verse, can make a noble Flight.It keeps our Spice, and Aromatics sweet;In Paris they perfume their Rooms with it;For burning but one Leaf of yours, they say,Drives all their Stinks and Nastiness away.Cooks keep their Pyes from burning with your Wit,Their Pigs and Geese from scorching on the Spit:And Vintners find their Wines are ne'er the worse,When Ars'nick's only wrap'd up in the Verse.These are the great Performances, that raiseYour mighty Parts above all reach of Praise,And give us only Leave t' admire your Worth,For no Man, but yourself, can set it forth,Whose wond'rous Pow'r's so generally known,Fame is the Echo, and her Voice your own.