Selected quad for the lemma: judgement_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
judgement_n	body_n	part_n	soul_n	2,099	5	5.2542	4	true

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A30001	An essay on poetry; written by the Marquis of Normanby, and the same render'd into Latin by another hand. With several other poems, viz. An epistle to the Lord Chamberlain, on His Majesty's victory in Ireland; by the honourable Mr. Montague. An epistle to the honourable Mr. Montague, on His Majesty's voyage to Holland; by Mr. Stepny. An epistle to Monsieur Boileau; by Mr. Arwaker. A poem on the promotion of several eminent persons in church and state; by Mr. Tate. To which are added the following poems, never before in print, viz. An ode in memory of the late Queen; by a person of quality. A poem on the late horrid conspiracy; by Mr. Stepny; Essay on poetry. English and Latin.	Buckingham, John Sheffield, Duke of, 1648-1720 or 21.; Halifax, Charles Montagu, Earl of, 1661-1715. Epistle to the right Honourable Charles Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, Lord Chamberlain.; Stepney, George, 1663-1707. Epistle to Charles Montague Esq; on His Majesty's voyage to Holland.; Arwaker, Edmund, d. 1730. Epistle to Monsieur Boileau.; Tate, Nahum. Poem on the late promotion of several eminent persons in church and state.; Buckingham, John Sheffield, Duke of, 1648-1720 or 21. Ode in memory of her late Majesty Queen Mary.; Stepney, George, 1663-1707. On the late horrid conspiracy.	1697 (1697)	Wing B5338; Wing B5342; ESTC R213098	32,751	110

and Eloquence Nay more for they must look within to find Those secret Turns of Nature in the mind Without this part in vain would be the whole And but a Body all without a Soul All this together yet is but a part Of Dialogue that great and powerful Art Now almost lost which the old Grecians knew From whence the Romans fainter Copies drew Scarce comprehended since but by a few Plato and Lucian are the best Remains Of all the Wonders which this Art contains Yet to our selves we Justice must allow Shakespear and Fletcher are the Wonders now Consider them and read them o'er and o'er Go see them play'd then read them as before For tho in many things they grosly fail Over our Passions still they so prevail That our own Grief by theirs is rock'd asleep The Dull are forc'd to feel the wise to weep Their Beauties imitate avoid their Faults First on a Plot employ thy careful Thoughts Turn it with time a thousand several Ways This oft alone has given success to Plays Reject that vulgar Error which appears So fair of making perfect Characters There 's no such thing in Nature and you●ll draw A faultless Monster which the World ne●er saw Some Faults must be that his Misfortunes drew But such as may deserve Compassion too Besides the main Design composed with Art Each moving Scene must be a Plot apart Contrive each little turn mark every place As Painters first chalk out the future Face Yet be not fondly your own Slave for this But change hereafter what appears amiss Think not so much where shining Thoughts to place As what a Man would say in such a Case Neither in Comedy will this suffice The Player too must be before your Eyes And tho ' t●s Drudgery to stoop so low To him you must your utmost meaning show Expose no single Fop but lay the Load More equally and spread the Folly broad The other way is vulgar oft we see A Fool derided by as bad as he Hawks fly at nobler Game in this low way A very Owl may prove a Bird of Prey Ill Poets so will one poor Fop devour But to collect like Bees from every Flower Ingredients to compose that precious Juice Which serves the World for Pleasure and for use In spight of Faction this would Favour get But Falstaff seems unimitable yet Another Fault which often does befall Is when the Wit of some great Poet shall So overflow that is be none at all That all his Fools speak Sence as if possest And each by Inspiration breaks his Jest If once the Iustness of each part be lost Well we may laugh but at the Poets Cost That silly thing Men call Sheer-Wit avoid With which our Age so nauseously is cloy'd Humour is all Wit should be only brought To turn agreeably some proper Thought But since the Poets we of late have known Shine in no Dress so much as in their own The better by Example to convince Cast but a View on this wrong side of Sence First a Soliloquy is calmly made Where every Reason is exactly weigh'd Which once perform'd most opportunely comes A Hero frighted at the Noise of Drums For her sweet sake whom at first sight he loves And all in Metaphor his passion proves But some sad Accident tho yet unknown Parting this Pair to leave the Swain alone He streight grows jealous yet we know not why And to oblige his Rival needs will dye But first he makes a Speech wherein he tells The absent Nymph how much his Flame excels And yet bequeaths her generously now To that dear Rival whom he does not know Who streight appears but who can Fate withstand Too late alas to hold his hasty Hand That just has giv'n himself the cruel Stroke At which this very Strangers Heart is broke He more to his new Friend than Mistress kind Most sadly mourns at being left behind Of such a Death prefers the pleasing Charms To Love and living in a Lady's Arms. How shameful and what monstrous things are these And then they rail at those they cannot please Conclude us only partial for the Dead And grudge the Sign of old Ben. Iohnson's Head When the intrinsick Value of the Stage Can scarce be judg'd but by a following Age For Dances Flutes Italian Songs and Rhime May keep up sinking Nonsense for a time But that may fail which now so much o'er-rules And Sence no longer will submit to Fools By painful Steps we are at last got up Parnassus Hill on whose bright Airy Top The Epick Poets so divinely show And with just Pride behold the rest below Heroick Poems have a just pretence To be the utmost reach of human Sence A Work of such inestimable Wor●● There are but two the World has yet brought forth Homer and Virgil with what awful sound Do those meer words the Ears of Poets wound Just as a Changeling seems below the rest Of Men or rather is a two-legg'd Beast So these Gigantick Souls amaz'd we find As much above the rest of human kind Natures whole strength united endless Fame And universal Shouts attend their Name Read Homer once and you can read no more For all things else appear so dull and poor Verse will seem Prose yet often on him look And you will hardly need another Book Had Bossu never writ the World had still Like Indians view'd this wondrous Piece of Skill As something of Divine the Work admired Not hoped to be Instructed but Inspired But he disclosing sacred Mysteries Has shewn where all the mighty Magick lies Describ'd the Seeds and in what order sown That have to such a vast proportion grown Sure from some Angel he the Secret knew Who through this Labyrinth has given the Clue But what alas avails it poor Mankind To see this promised Land yet stay behind The Way is shewn but who has Strength to go Who can all Sciences exactly know Whose Fancy flies beyond weak Reason's Sight And yet has Iudgment to direct it right Whose just Discernment Virgil-like is such Never to say too little or too much Let such a Man begin without delay But he must do much more than I can say Must above Cowley nay and Milton too prevail Succeed where great Torquato and our greater Spencer fail The END AN EPISTLE TO THE Right Honourable CHARLES EARL of DORSET and MIDDLESEX Lord Chamberlain OF HIS Majesties Houshold Occasion'd by His Majesty's VICTORY in IRELAND LICENSED Sept. 26. The Second Edition Corrected LONDON Printed for Francis Saunders at the Blue Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange 1690. AN EPISTLE TO MY Lord Chamberlain WHat Shall the KING the Nations Genius raise And make us Rival our great Edward's Days Yet not one Muse worthy a Conq'ror's Name Attend his Triumphs and Record his Fame Oh Dorset You alone this Fault can mend The Muses Darling Confident and Friend The Poets are your Charge and if unfit You should be fin'd to furnish

pride A Player's Art Is above his who writes a borrowed part Yet modern Laws are made for later Faults And new Absurdities inspire new Thoughts What need has Satyr then to live on Theft When so much fresh occasion still is le●t Fertile our Soil and full of rankest Weeds And Monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds But hold the Fools shall have no cause to fear 'T is Wit and Sense that is the Subject here Defects of witty Men deserve a Cure And those who are so will ev'n this endure First then of SONGS which now so much abound Without his Song no Fop is to be found A most offensive Weapon which he draws On all he meets against Apollo's Laws Tho nothing seems more easie yet no part Of Poetry requires a nicer Art For as in rows of richest Pearl there lies Many a Blemish that escapes our Eyes The least of which Defects is plainly shewn In some small Ring and brings the value down So Songs should be to just Perfection wrought Yet where can we see one without a fault Exact Propriety of Words and Thought Expression easie and the Fancy high Yet that not seem to creep nor this to fly No Words transpos'd but in such order all As tho hard wrought may seem by chance to fall Here as in all things else is most unfit Bare Ribaldry that poor Pretence to Wit Such nauseous Songs by a late Author made Call an unwilling Censure on his Shade Not that warm Thoughts of the transporting Joy Can shock the chastest or the nicest cloy But obscene Words too gross to move Desire Like Heaps of Fewel do but choak the Fire On other Themes he well deserves our Praise But palls that Appetite he meant to raise Next ELEGY of sweet but solemn Voice And of a Subject grave exacts the Choice The Praise of Beauty Valor Wit contains And there too oft despairing Love complains In vain alas for who by Wit is moved That Phoenix-she deserves to be beloved But noisy Nonsense and such Fops as vex Mankind take most with that fantastick Sex This to the Praise of those who better knew The Many raise the Value of the Few But here as all our Sex too oft have try'd Women have drawn my wandring Thoughts aside Their greatest Fault who in this kind have writ Is not Defect in Words nor want of Wit But should this Muse harmonious Numbers yield And every Couplet be with Fancy fill'd If yet a just Coberence be not made Between each Thought and the whole Model laid So right that every step may higher rise Like goodly Mountains till they reach the Skies Trifles like such perhaps of late have past And may be lik'd awhile but never last 'T is Epigram 't is Point 't is what you will But not an Elegy nor Writ with Skill No Panegyrick nor a Coopers-Hill A higher Flight and of a happier Force Are ODES the Muses most unruly Horse That bounds so fierce the Rider has no rest But foams at mouth and moves like one possest The Poet here must be indeed inspired With Fury too as well as Fancy fired Cowley might boast to have performed this part Had he with Nature joyn'd the Rules of Art But ill Expression gives sometimes Allay To that rich Fancy which can ne'er decay Tho all appear in Heat and Fury done The Language still must soft and easie run These Laws may seem a little too severe But Iudgment yields and Fancy governs there Which tho extravagant this Muse allows And makes the Work much easier than it shews Of all the Ways that wisest Men could find To mend the Age and mortifie Mankind SATYR well writ has most successful prov'd And cures because the Remedy is lov'd 'T is hard to write on such a Subject more Without repeating Things said oft before Some vulgar Errors only we remove That stain a Beauty which so much we love Of well chose Words some take not care enough And think they should be as the Subject rough This great Work must be more exactly made And sharpest Thoughts in smoothest Words convey'd Some think if sharp enough they cannot fail As if their only Business was to rail But human Frailty nicely to unfold Distinguishes a Satyr from a Scold Rage you must hide and Prejudice lay down A Satyr's Smile is sharper than his Frown So while you seem to slight some Rival Youth Malice it self may pass sometimes for Truth The Laureat here may justly claim our Praise Crown'd by Mac-Fleckno with immortal Bays Tho prais'd and punish'd for another's Rhimes His own deserve as great Applause sometimes But once his Pegasus has born dead Weight Rid by some lumpish Minister of State Here rest my Muse suspend thy Cares a while A greater Enterprise attends thy Toil And as some Eagle that designs to fly A long unwonted Journey through the Sky Considers all the dangerous way before Over what Lands and Seas she is to soar Doubts her own Strength so far and justly fears That lofty Road of Airy Travellers But yet incited by some fair Design That does her Hopes beyond her Fears incline Prunes every Feather views her self with Care At last resolved she cleaves the yielding Air Away she flies so strong so high so fast She lessens to us and is lost at last So but too weak for such a weighty thing The Muse inspires a sharper Note to sing And why should Truth offend when only told To guide the Ignorant and warn the Bold On then my Muse adventrously engage To give Instructions that concern the Stage The Unities of Action Time and Place Which if observed give PLAYS so great a Grace Are tho but little practis'd too well known To be taught here where we pretend alone From nicer Faults to purge the present Age Less obvious Errors of the English Stage First then SOLILOQUIES had need be few Extremely short and spoke in Passion too Our Lovers talking to themselves for want Of others make the Pit their Confidant Nor is the matter mended yet if thus They trust a Friend only to tell it us Th' occasion should as naturally fall As when Bellario confesses all FIGURES of Speech which Poets think so fine Art's needless Varnish to make Nature shine Are all but Paint upon a beauteous Face And in Descriptions only claim a place But to make Rage declaim and Grief discourse From Lovers in despair fine things to force Must needs succeed for who can chuse but pity A dying Hero miserably witty But oh the Dialogues where jest and mock Is held up like a Rest at Shittle-cock Or else like Bells eternally they chime They sigh in Simile and die in Rhime What Things are these who would be Poets thought By Nature not inspir'd nor Learning taught Some Wit they have and therefore may deserve A better Course than this by which they starve But to write Plays why 't is a bold pretence To Iudgment Breeding Wit