"Our Poet hope's you'll not expect to day, / T'have all his down-right thoughts drest up so gay, / If his Coyn chinks too much, you'll doubt allay."
— Fane, Sir Francis (d. 1691)
Author
Place of Publication
London
Publisher
Printed by T. N. For Henry Herringman [etc.]
Date
1675
Metaphor
"Our Poet hope's you'll not expect to day, / T'have all his down-right thoughts drest up so gay, / If his Coyn chinks too much, you'll doubt allay."
Metaphor in Context
What though 't has been the Genius of this Age,
Tame Pegasus to fetter on the Stage;
T' imprison in close Rimes, well-govern'd Rage?
Alas 'tis easier much for them in France,
The English do but Walk, when Frenchmen Dance,
Rhyme comes to them by Nature, Wit by Chance.
Rhyme is a cheating Vapour, which unseen
Ill Poets, like ill Spirits, pass between
To good Wits but a shade, to bad a Skreen.
Then since our Heroes rowz'd with French Allarms,
Have beat the Mounsieurs at their own slight Arms,
With lofty Sence, in Verses gingling Charms.
Our Poet hope's you'll not expect to day,
T'have all his down-right thoughts drest up so gay,
If his Coyn chinks too much, you'll doubt allay.
But oh! the hungry Critick longs to bait
And thinks, like Men on Scaffolds, we Dilate
Preaching to stop irrevocable Fate.
Lean Wit! who like some indigesting Eater
With Wolf in's Stomach, preys on all fresh Matter
By his ingrateful Gutt, ne'r made the fatter.
No no, our Author hopes you will excuse
The yielding Parlies of his Virgin Muse.
Who learns to Court, practising to refuse.
For Modesty's the Daughter of Desire
An Artificial Ice that's made by Fire.
That does at first deny, at last require.
Pardon the struglings of his Maiden Pen.
Imbrace her briskly, the first time, and then
She'll never leave you, till you do't agen.
Tame Pegasus to fetter on the Stage;
T' imprison in close Rimes, well-govern'd Rage?
Alas 'tis easier much for them in France,
The English do but Walk, when Frenchmen Dance,
Rhyme comes to them by Nature, Wit by Chance.
Rhyme is a cheating Vapour, which unseen
Ill Poets, like ill Spirits, pass between
To good Wits but a shade, to bad a Skreen.
Then since our Heroes rowz'd with French Allarms,
Have beat the Mounsieurs at their own slight Arms,
With lofty Sence, in Verses gingling Charms.
Our Poet hope's you'll not expect to day,
T'have all his down-right thoughts drest up so gay,
If his Coyn chinks too much, you'll doubt allay.
But oh! the hungry Critick longs to bait
And thinks, like Men on Scaffolds, we Dilate
Preaching to stop irrevocable Fate.
Lean Wit! who like some indigesting Eater
With Wolf in's Stomach, preys on all fresh Matter
By his ingrateful Gutt, ne'r made the fatter.
No no, our Author hopes you will excuse
The yielding Parlies of his Virgin Muse.
Who learns to Court, practising to refuse.
For Modesty's the Daughter of Desire
An Artificial Ice that's made by Fire.
That does at first deny, at last require.
Pardon the struglings of his Maiden Pen.
Imbrace her briskly, the first time, and then
She'll never leave you, till you do't agen.
Categories
Provenance
Searching "thought" and "allay" (for "alloy") in HDIS (Drama)
Date of Entry
05/25/2005
