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The Good Poet at His Worst
OCCASIONAL LAPSES
And now where're he strayes,
Among the Galilean mountaines,
Or more unwellcome wayes,
He's followed by two faithfull fountaines;
Two walking baths; two weeping motions;
Portable, & compendious oceans.
RICHARD CRASHAW: Saint Mary Magdalene
Weeping o'er the sacred urn,
Ever shall the Muses mourn;
Ever shall their numbers flow,
Ever elegant in woe.
AMBROSE PHILIPS: To the Memory of Lord Halifax
The Furies sink upon their iron beds,
And snakes uncurl'd halig listening round their heads.
ALEXANDER POPE: Ode on St Cecilia's Day
Since Brunswick's smile has authoris'd my muse,
Chaste be her conduct, and sublime her views.
EDWARD YOUNG: The Instalment
Does nature bear a tyrant's breast?
Is she the friend of stern control?
Wears she the despot's purple vest?
Or fetters she the free-born soul?
JOHN LANGHORNE: Owen ofCarron
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