Madagascar; with Other Poems/To the Lady Bridget Kingsmill; sent with Mellons after a report of my Death

by William Davenant

 

To the Lady Bridget Kingsmill;
sent with Mellons after a report
of my Death.

Madam, that Ghosts have walk'd; and kindly did
Convey Men heretofore to mony hid;
That they weare Chaines, which rattle 'till they make
More noise, than injur'd Ale-wives at a Wake;
All this is free to faith; but Sozomine,
Nor th' Abbot Tretenheim, nor Rhodigine,
Nor the Jew Tripho, though they all defend
Such dreames, can urge one Ghost that Verses pend:
Therefore, be pleas'd to thinke, when these are read;
I am no Ghost, nor have beene three weekes dead.
Yet Poets that so nobly vaine have beene,
To want so carelesly, till want prove sinne;
Through avarice of late, toth' Arches sent,
To know the chiefe within my Testament:
And th' Aldermen by Charter, title lay
('Cause writ 'ith City's Virge) to my new Play:
So if, the Proclamations, kinde, nice care,
Keepe you not (Madam) from our black raw Aire,
Next Terme, you'll finde it own'd thus on each Wall
Writ by the Lord May'r, acted at Guild-Hall.
But then I must be dead; which if you will
In curteous pitty feare, and suspect still;
These Mellons shall approach your pensive Eye,
Not as a Token but a Legacie.
Would they were such, as could have reach'd the sense,
To know what use they had of excellence,
Since destin'd to be yours; such as would be
(Now yours) justly ambitious of a Tree
To grow upon; scorne a dejected birth,
Course German Tiles, low Stalks, that lace the Earth:
Such, as since gladly yours, got skill, and pow'r,
To choose the strongest Sunne, and weakest Showre:
Such, as in Groves Cecilian Lovers eat,
To coole those wishes, that their Ladies heat.
But if the Gard'ner make (like Adam) all
Our human hopes, bold, and apocryphall;
And that my Mellons prove no better than
Those lovely Pompe'ons, which in Barbican,
Fencers, and Vaulters Widowes please to eat,
Not as a Sallad, but cheap-filling-meat;
Thinke then I'm dead indeed; and that they were
Early bequeath'd, but pay'd too late i'th Yeare:
So the just scornes, of your lov'd wit, no more
Can hazard mee, but my Executor.