To my Lord Arch-Bishops of CANTERBURY, Upon His Famous Erection, The THEATER in OXFORD.
MY LORD,
OUR
English Stories blush not to present
A generous Wast, a Brave Demolishment,
And Fame her self commends it to our hands,
Twenty six Towns stood, where
New Forrest stands,
But this Renown You ever will enjoy,
You Build more, than the Conquerour did Destroy.
While the wide World endures, We must confess
Sinai, a Venerable Wilderness.
Let then no vile Detraction dare to 'bate,
Where Kings Magnificently Depopulate.
Whether those Towns were large, or th'Tenements poor,
With their Walls Loam, Tile, Thatch, & Earth the Floor,
What Orchards, Gardens, Pasture-grounds lay to't,
What Arable, let Chronologers compute;
Expired Ages their own Downfals grieve,
You build the Envie of the Age You live.
Egypt, in elder times the World did fill,
With Trophies of her Structures, and her Skill;
But most admired Prelate! You impart
Piles 'bove her Pyramides, Scienc's 'bove her Art.
Though thy deep-Learned self, decry the powers
Of meaner Foiles, and Set-offs from thy Towers,
Yet do thy Fabricks so exceed belief,
Thou art Great, though those mean-Glories were thy chief.
What bold Erection starts not to appear,
In competition with Thy
Theater?
Pompey's great Structure much admired stood,
Yet mingled was 'twixt Excellent, and Good;
Though its perfection some in vain Protect,
Compared with Thine, 'twas Ruins when Erect.
This Model would renew fierce
Nero's frown,
That Murderer of his Mother, and his Town:
Striving to sample this, he soon would find
His artless Platform, fall so far behind,
The Furies would award Him equal Doom,
For building up, as for his burning ROME.
The Adverse
French and
Spaniards here accord,
Agreeing Praises, to this Work afford,
And pity those, whose commendations fall
Or on their LOOVRE, or ESCURIAL.
But waving Them, send Artists here to see
Not what those Great Courts are, but ought to be.
(Gay pompous Cottages! and sit alone
To slumber out a Life in, and be gone.)
Near Earth's deep Centre the Foundation lies,
While the Roose bids Good Morning to the Skies.
Whose unsupported Arch floats in the Air,
As if no Building but a Bird hung there.
As
Mahomets Tombe contends the ground to press,
But seems restrain'd below, by emptiness:
Bid no attractive Agent buoy up all,
Without His Epilepsie He must fall,
And his blind Votaries who under kneel,
The Fatal pressure of their Prophet feel;
The Tomb had chrusht, and cover'd 'em ere this,
And been Their Monument, as well as His.
These Arches swim aloft, secure from harm,
Without the fraud of his Magnetick charm,
Where once arriv'd, themselves Protect,
Instructed by mysterious Architect:
Angles to Angles, Squares to Squares apply,
Each stone is Loadstone to his next Allie.
As in the Orbs no groaning Pillar bears
The pressure of the self-susteined Sphears,
But all the Axis (Grave
Astronomers Theam)
Is firm Imagination, but not Beam;
Whose each extream fixt to some phansy'd Pole,
Means but due Contiguation of the Whole.
So here, while parts to equal parts resort,
They their own Beauty are and own Support.
Yet as by chance contriv'd and not by wit,
They seem, but dropt down aptly, and fall'n fit.
Here no created weight or more or less
Can the strong sinews of the Arch depress,
But fearless, all attempts she disappoints,
By the secure contexture of her Joints.
Her Burdens numberless, breed no mishaps,
But close the spaces, and endear the Gaps.
Huge rockey-Mountains up small Pullies call,
And strongly rivet by their Gradual fall:
Vast Trunks of Oak they
[...], and by the proof
Of slender Cords entice them to the Roof.
So the ponderous Eagle rises by degrees,
When with undaunted eyes the Sun she sees,
And by like Stratagems she does advance,
Him, and his Rayes stares out of countenance.
Against the Clouds her mounting Crests she flings,
Born by the frail Foundation of her wings.
Unless screw'd up, wedg'd in, and mortis'd thus;
The slightest Lark, would die a
Daedalus,
Dasht gainst rude Rocks, would tumbling fall down right,
Bemoaning the Ambition of her flight.
But Air crowds close to Air, to skreen off Fate
From her aspiring and Harmonious weight.
This Managery doth not on Toyl relie,
But Dissonant materials Harmony:
Mens Brawney Arms, and Shoulders suffer less;
On Mathematicks Consort lies the stress.
Amphion when to raise His
Thebes He falls,
His Lute feels all the labour of the Walls.
Dress'd in their Leaves, and bark they once did bow,
Trees folllow'd
Orpheus then, but Timber now,
Squar'd, and cut out, proportion'd, smooth'd, and fil'd,
This Art the Wood obeys, His, but the wild.
Bold
Archimedes, if these Arts he knew,
He might displace the World, and place it new:
Fixing his powerful Engine, sure to bear,
Upon some solid Nothing, in no where.
No cunning is so nice, no Art so Rare,
Except those Arts alone that are taught there.
To some less wary in Distinguishing,
The bare Name
Theater depraves the Thing;
Thither they come entangled in their fears,
Of meeting Savage Objects! Panthers, Bears,
Wolves, Lions, Tygers! These thus prepossest
Expect some Splendid Desert at the best,
Africk immur'd! for such they have been told,
Were all the Ancient
Theatres, of Old.
But all the sights in this Majestick Frame
Are like the Spectators, Tractable and Tame.
No mangled Gladiators here intrude;
No Tragick, nor no Mimick interlude:
But all the hours they solemnly beguile,
And ne'r excite our sorrow, nor our smile.
The Doctors of all Faculties, and Arts,
Out-shine their Scarlet with their Radiant Parts.
Few hours in gravest State of questions spent,
Opponents brandish Dint of Argument:
Till in subjection to Victorious brains,
The captive Adversary sighs in chains.
Of all the Statelies in this Orbs dispose,
The Divinity Act.
The choicest Canton is reserv'd for those,
Who prove all Praise ev'n to this
Theatre lent,
Most due to that above the Firmament.
And such the sacred Sons of
Aaron be,
Who would fain confute us into Eternity.
If some in heat of Disputation stray,
From Saint
Ignatius to
Loyala,
Then the profound Professor soon recalls,
By Fathers, Schools, Councils, Originals.
Such was the Grave, the Primitive Decree;
But some Divines are now o'th Livery;
Religion's Artifice; and Shop-men ply't,
Not to gain Proselites, but Custom by't;
Their Sermons sell their Wares: who can invade
With stoutest Lungs, O! He's the Man of Trade.
Yet, 'mongst the Wise, or worthy, these Tricks fall,
Produce three
Gentry-Juglers and take All.
Next these, the Learned
AEsculapian. Train
The Physick Act.
Seek to retrieve their lost Rights, (Oh! in vain)
Gainst Bills, and posting Empricks they inveigh,
And prove, no Pestilence devours like they
In pension with the Graves; their surest Trust
(The Serpents curse) is,
Thou shalt eat the Dust.
Next, civil
Sanctions guarding Man from Man,
The Civil Law Act.
Rich Treasures? left us by
Justinian,
Codes, Pandects, Digests, set a shore to Pride,
And wrong through all the World. Who can decide
Which of the Two have more Extensive Claws,
The
Roman Eagles, or the
Roman Laws?
Throngs of Learn'd Youth fill up the lower space,
The Regent Masters Act.
Hoods, whose Reverse are Silks their shoulders Grace,
Shoulders, which three Years since did only claim
Less-graduate Furrs, the Ermins of the Lamb.
These seven long Years the Liberal Arts obey,
At seven Years end, as Liberal as they.
And (what's in other Lands a wondrous thing,)
Subjects without the
Non-age of their
KING.
Created Regents all: and such They be,
Want but a Scepter for Prince-Regency.
For when their Great, or lesser Meetings call,
(Like General Councils, or Provincial)
They ratifie all Rejections, and all Choice,
By the uncontrolled Empire of their Voice.
But, least Learn'd Intricates too long perplex,
The Attention of the
Lady-gentle Sex.
The Musick Act.
Some select
Orators brisk, and witty fire
With their ingenious Reach bends to conspire;
And Native-Languag'd gains this Preference,
Musick, less
Musick is than Eloquence.
While Rowling
Organs, Viol, warbling
Lute
So swift, so sweet through th' ravisht Audience shoot,
Intelligences lend astonisht Ears,
And shame their
Musick-more-pretending Sphears.
What Structure else but Prides it to reveal
Treasures? which Bashful this would fain conceal:
As
Pearls were modest grown, Coy to be found,
Shading their choicest Glories under ground.
The Printing Office under the Theater.
Thus
Indian KINGS
Exchequers heap up Store:
But in their
Mines lies Infinitely more.
The Sacred
Oracles inspired Lungs
Above, all Truths; Below they speak all Tongues.
Spain, Gascoin, Florence, Smyrna, and the
Rhine
May taste their Language there, though not the Wine.
The
Jew, Mede, Elomite, Arabian, Crete,
In these deep Vault their wandring
Ideoms meet,
And to compute, are in Amazement hurl'd
How long since OXFORD has been all the
World!
Tis Generous to Assist; They merit Praise,
Who contribute such Mighty works to raise.
All that confer, to set Lost
Pauls to Right,
Heaven that Rewadrs their Pounds, regards their Mite,
Now Natures self seems stinted; now when stuff
To cut out Souls is scarce allowed enough,
To Your free Make are such Ingredients gone,
As may suffice to Insoul the Nation.
This numberless Expence You disimburse,
Without Associate, or Confederate Purse.
So, have I seen one spacious Beech contain
A vast Dimension o're a Verdant Plain.
She warn'd the Trees, their vain approach forbear,
My self am streightned, (Trees than Vocal were)
My Root, and Trunk is large, Head broad, and High;
Seven hundred Ewes to my Protection flie:
And when beneath my leaves those flocks retire,
A more commodious Lare none can desire;
I lend them Lodging, Grazing, and Defence,
To all their wants a full Convenience.
If part of these under your branches browze,
Who shall address to my Remaining Boughs:
This Plain is my Demesnes, while I survive,
In yonder Vacant Copse, ye all may Thrive.
Where grateful Lambs, who your fair shades repleat,
Will Dance, and Sing their Tributary Bleat.
Some Frames are Fairly rais'd but to Abuse;
As
Popes Themselves establish decent stews.
O, then what Verse ought to Eternize You,
Who build to Beauty, and to Vertue too?
May thrice three hundred Prosperous years be spread,
And thrice three Hundred Blisses on Thy head,
Thy Head! who with Thy Bounty dost surprize,
Greater than most have Bounty to Advise.
May Thy Stiles swell, Thy numerous Sees disperse,
Be sole
Diocesan o'th' Universe!
Till Thou hast space obtain'd, and Treasure won,
To do, all Thou wouldst do, and see it don.
Then having finisht Deeds so Good so high,
Thy next
Arch-Bishoprick must be the skie.
FINIS.
LONDON, Printed for C. S. Anno Domini, MDCLXXV.