He to a Sympathie those soules betrai'd
Whom Love or Beauty never could perswade;
And in each mov'd spectatour could beget
A reall passion by a Counterfeit:
When first_ Bellario _bled, what Lady there
Did not for every drop let fall a teare?
And when_ Aspasia _wept, not any eye
But seem'd to weare the same sad livery;
By him inspired the feigned_ Lucina _drew
More streams of melting sorrow then the true;
But then the_ Scornfull Lady _did beguile
Their easie griefs, and teach them all to smile.
Thus he Affections could, or raise or lay;
Love, Griefe and Mirth thus did his Charmes obey:
He Nature taught her passions to out-doe,
How to refine the old, and create new;
Which such a happy likenesse seem'd to beare,
As if that Nature Art, Art Nature were.
Yet All had Nothing bin, obscurely kept
In the same Urne wherein his Dust hath slept,
Nor had he ris' the Delphick wreath to claime,
Had not the dying sceane expired his Name;
Dispaire our joy hath doubled, he is come,
Thrice welcome by this_ Post-liminium.
_His losse preserved him; They that silenc'd Wit,
Are now the Authours to Eternize it;
Thus Poets are in spight of Fate revived,
And Playes by Intermission longer liv'd_.
THO.
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