Poems (1686) — To My Lord Colrane, In Answer to his Complemental Verses sent me under the Name of Cleanor

_In Answer to his Complemental Verses sent me under the Name of_ CLEANOR.

Long my dull _Muse_ in heavy slumbers lay, Indulging Sloth, and to soft Ease gave way, Her Fill of Rest resolving to enjoy, Or fancying little worthy her employ.

When Noble _Cleanors_ obliging Strains Her, the neglected Lyre to tune, constrains.

Confus'd at first, she rais'd her drowsie Head, Ponder'd a while, then pleas'd, forsook her Bed.

Survey'd each Line with Fancy richly fraught, Re-read, and then revolv'd them in her Thought.

And can it be?

She said, and can it be?

That 'mong the Great Ones I a Poet see?

The Great Ones?

who their Ill-spent time devide, 'Twixt dang'rous Politicks, and formal Pride, Destructive Vice, expensive Vanity, In worse Ways yet, if Worse there any be: Leave to Inferiours the despised Arts, Let their Retainers be the _Men of Parts_.

But here with Wonder and with Joy I find, I'th' Noble Born, a no less Noble Mind;

One, who on Ancestors, does not rely For Fame, in Merit, as in Title, high!

The Severe Godess thus approv'd the Laies: Yet too much pleas'd, alas, with her own Praise.

But to vain Pride, _My Muse_, cease to give place, _Virgils_ immortal Numbers once did grace A _Smother'd Gnat_: by high Applause is shown, If undeserv'd, the Praisers worth alone: Nor that you should believ't, is't always meant, 'Tis often for Instruction only sent, To praise men to Amendment, and display, By its Perfection, where their Weakness lay.

This Use of these Applauding Numbers make Them for Example, not Encomium, take.

The Discontent.