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Tixall Poetry.
Such heaven-lyke musique tempers noblest rime,
To moove still smoothly round, and never clime,
Not barely keeping, but creating tyme.
And thus our soft-pend Crashaw writes, above
Thees toyling witts as much, in what should moove,
As in the choice, and obiect of his love.
And heare you see, sir, in a carelesse looke,
I know a season'd verse, but would be tooke
More for a skilfull carver then a cooke.
Hence have I chose this scribbling liberty,
Where every line's a verse, in spight of me,
Your humble servant, Edward Thimelby.
To moove still smoothly round, and never clime,
Not barely keeping, but creating tyme.
And thus our soft-pend Crashaw writes, above
Thees toyling witts as much, in what should moove,
As in the choice, and obiect of his love.
And heare you see, sir, in a carelesse looke,
I know a season'd verse, but would be tooke
More for a skilfull carver then a cooke.
Hence have I chose this scribbling liberty,
Where every line's a verse, in spight of me,
Your humble servant, Edward Thimelby.
III.
I'm yet a libertin in verse, and write
Both what the spirit and the flesh indite,
Nor can be yet our Crashaws convertite.
Methinkes your misticall poetik straine,
Does not so sanctify a poet's veine,
As make divinity itself prophaine.
Both what the spirit and the flesh indite,
Nor can be yet our Crashaws convertite.
Methinkes your misticall poetik straine,
Does not so sanctify a poet's veine,
As make divinity itself prophaine.
