Selected quad for the lemma: sense_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
sense_n	wit_n	wonder_n	write_v	18	3	4.4801	4	false

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A49438	Luctus britannici, or, The tears of the British muses for the death of John Dryden, Esq., late poet laureat to Their Majesties, K. Charles and K. James the Second written by the most eminent hands in the two famous universities, and by several others.	Playford, Henry, b. 1657.; Roper, Abel, 1665-1726.	1700 (1700)	Wing L3451; ESTC R21041	34,391	86

rais'd more fit A Master was than Subject is of Wit X. Z. On the DEATH of Mr. DRYDEN By a Person of QUALITY A Dieu Harmonious Dryden and receive The last poor Tribute Poetry can give Adieu Thou Glory of our Isle Adieu A long Farewell to Poetry and YOV With You the sweetness of our Muses die's Deep in Your Tomb the British Genius lie's You were our Muse's darling ev'ry Page Of Your's she blest Nor could the Wrongs of Age Weaken your Vigour nor your Warmth asswage But now for You she droops can scarce rehearse Some wretched Numbers to attend Your Herse In ev'ry Strain in ev'ry Note we hear Sad Melancholy Sounds of black Despair Not such as when flush'd with Diviner Rage She grew a Match for Virgil's Sacred Page Such as when late on Tyber's Banks she stood And with a decent Horror dy'd the Field with Blood Where in each Page engaging Hero's join And Great Aeneas fight 's in ev'ry Line All this we owe to You Ungrateful then If Tears and Your Just Praises we refrain For You our Virgins Mourn Your Moving Strains Were sweet as ev'ning Breezes on the Plains Soft as the tender Sighs that fan Desire Kind as the first approach of Amorous Fire Your gentle Numbers ev'ry Heart cou'd move Inspire soft Thoughts and melt us into Love Yet there is not a Souldier in our Isle But shews a Manly Sorrow at Your PILE In You Secure of Fame he bravely fought The Hero Conquer'd when the Poet Wrote He knew your Pen wou'd well reward his Wars And give a Noble Recompence for honest Scars Vice from Your Satyr always Vanquish'd fled Your angry Numbers struck the Monster Dead Your happy Pen all Impious Factions quell'd After you Wrote no Absolom Rebell'd Great Iuvenal amidst the Shades below Was pleas'd to see himself Reviv'd in You. He Smil'd and in Elysium gave Applause To see so Great a Second in the Cause What ever heretofore old Rome Admir'd When Terence Virgil Horace lay Inspir'd When Great Lucretius form'd an Infant World Of Justling Atoms in Confusion hurl'd What e'er sweet Ovid's Softness cou'd Inspire What e'er the kind Tibullus's Amorous Fire We read in You. Why then shou'd our Esteem Be less for Dryden than was Rome's for them Shall we not Grieve No it shall ne'er be said Britain's Ungrateful when Her Poet 's Dead Behold the Patrons of our Isle appear To Praise the Poet and Adorn the Bier With Pompous Sorrow to the Tomb they go Mix Praise with Tears Magnificence with Woe And o'er his Urn erect a Noble Frame Worthy the Poet 's and the Patron 's Name Iune 1st Oxon To the Memory of John Dryden Esq WHilst every Tongue and every Pen's employ'd To tell the Nation what we once Enjoy'd My mournful Muse shall with the rest Admire With equal Grief thô not with equal Fire Each Mourner must his proper Office keep Their business is to Praise and mine to Weep But Ah! what Tongue what Pen can ever show This fatal Loss this dismal Scene of Woe Mute is that Voice and mute those Heavenly Lays Whose wondrous Harmony alone could raise An equal Monument to Dryden's Praise In His own Ve●e how Glorious would he shine The Subject and the Praises both Divine Then might we Wit in true Perfection see Where Thoughts and Subject mutually agree Where brightest Language with just Numbers me●t With Virgil's Conduct and with Pindar's Heat Like Horace Moving and like Ovid Sweet Such happy Wonders did his Gen'rous Muse In ev'r● Page and ev'ry Line Infuse When Young he wrote with all the sense of Age Each sparkling Thought was Still Sedate and Sage When Old was fir'd with all His youthful Rage When his bold Muse attempts the Tragic Strain How noble was his Stile how rich his Vein Each Play he gave us was a finish'd Piece And rival'd the Triumvirate of Greece Then He transported us with gay Delight But when he Pleas'd could as severely Bite His piercing Rhime could smartly ridicule The Factious Senator and Scribling Fool How true he level'd his unerring Wit Where every Fault each darling Vice was hit His Muse and Mind both the same Dress did wear Sharp yet not Rough Serene and yet Severe When the bright Fair adorn'd his Charming Song How smoothly did His Numbers glide along In what soft Order did his Periods Move Like the mild Transports of Seraphick Love How eas'ly into Harmony they fell We all may wond'ring view but who can tell Tell me ye Criticks Can your Rules of Art Such Heavenly Musick with such Charms impart No 't is that noble Heat that sparkling Fire The Muses give when they their Sons Inspire That Warm's the Soul which kindly do's dispense Such tuneful Numbers with such shining Sense This Dryden felt but ah can feel no more No Muse can his extinguish'd Heat restore They only can afford their pious aid To help the Living to lament the Dead Farewell Great Dryden Thou shalt ever stand The Sacred Homer of the British Land For ever will we offer at thy Shrine Invoke no other Muse but only Thine If thou but Smile the Work will be Divine Cath. Hall Cambridge May 16. 1700. W. Worts On the Memory of the Great DRYDEN ON Iordan's Banks the gazing ●rophets stood And saw the Great Elijah pass the Flood They saw the HOST d●scend the Radiant Air And saw Him mounted in the flaming Carr This Glorious Scene they saw with vast Surprize For still they gaz'd and scarce believ'd their Eyes So now with us we hear the Funeral Kn●ll The Herse is stop'd before the D●smal Cell With flowing Eyes His Friends the Corps bemoan And yet we cannot think our DRYDEN gone Long fix'd Belief is very hard Untaught For Him Immortal as His Works we thought Hail DRYDEN Hail Oh! would His awful Name Inspire my Breast with His peculiar ●lame My throbbing Soul should forth in Raptures stream And Lofty Numbers dress the Lofty Theme I 'd sing the Labou●● 〈…〉 Pen And Mourn the Nation 's loss of such a God-like Man What did he not to Fame a wretched Age What wondrous Scenes he gave the thankless Stage Survey His Works see the stupendious P●le Without the Dross the Gold of all our Isle What Noble Wit through ev'ry Volume shine's What sparkling Thoughts adorn the sparkling Lines The Grecian Wits He brought unravell'd home And wove 'em richer in the British Loom Great Plautus's Ghost Rejoic'd to hear it told Our Dryden mix'd his Stuff with Threds of Gold His hand alone could mould our Rugged Tongue And make it bend to Iuvenal's Biting Song Majestick Maro too He fetch'd from Rome And made him Thriumph here as once at Home Oh! had he Liv'd what wou'd he not have done What Wonders had his boundless Soul begun With Tears I must Great Homer's Loss rehearse Redeem'd e'er this from base degrading Verse Close on the Stygian Verge the Genius stood Ready to take the Bark and stem the Flood What Joy it felt How did

glimmering lye And with declining Fire Since He from whom they took their Light Has wing'd His flight And set's not in the Seas but in the Sky VI. Farewell to Inspiration now All Sacred extasies of Wit The softer Excellence Of melting Words and moving Sence Ye will no more with tempting sweetness flow But Poetry must now submit To the bold Enthusiastick Rage Of a Malicious Age Which stead of Wonders Monsters must bring forth To stock the Times with want of Worth And break the Poets as they break the Stage VII Pythygoras his Doctrin m●ch I doubt Or else if Thy Great Soul should Transmigrated be It might be Parcell'd out And stock each Age with Lawreat's till Eternity Oh! where is that Harmonious Soul of thine Teaching more Tuneful Numbers to the Sphere Or making Stars with greater Lustre shine Or hov'ring through th' extended space thy long Eternity of Years No into Sacred Shades Thou' rt gone The Souls of Poets needs must thith●r fly I 'm sure they Lovers live how e'er they di● But Thou so many Laurels here hast won As soon will plant a new Elysium of thy own Triumphant sit beneath Thy Verdant Shade Of ever blooming Wreaths which less than those will sade Which are below for Laurels made Then Virgil the R●nown'd the Great May keep His ancient Regal Seat Which there at thy approach he must resign For well he knows Wit 's Throne is Thine And thou deserv'st the guidance of the Learned State VIII And lo with humblest Thanks He greet's that Hand Which so succesfully ha's taught His long fam'd Works the Language of our Land With Art in ev'ry Line and Grace in ev'ry Thought None their intrinsick Value can deny The well-plac'd Pride of ancient Rome Polish'd by Thee is now Our Boast become Sparkling with all the Glories of true Poetry And take's from all a just and happier Doom Orpheus and all the Tuneful Spirits there With Joys new Dated celebrate thy Fame In an Eternal soft Celestial Air For all the Honours Thou hast done that slighted injur'd Name IX And We who drown'd in Tears are left behind Are all employ'd about Thee too And thô thy Worth too great a Theme we find At least our Gratitude and Grief we shew Our best Encomiums but Prophane Thy Name Unless a Congreve would a Piece design Whose Numbers as they 're dear to Fame Can Justice do to Thine My well-meant Trophy blushing I must rear Unkind Melpomene afford's no aid Thô I so often begg'd and Pray'd My weaker Voice she would not hear Amongst the mighty Men She 's busi'd now They They I find best Charm Immortal Females too Thô she 'll not teach what Measures I shall keep Nor in Heroicks will my Wonder dress Nor in a softer Ode my Grief express 'T is my own fault being Woman if I cease to Weep Since this Great Man Fate 's rigid Laws obey'd How is Wit 's Empire lessen'd and decay'd It scarce a Province now appears Come then 't is Politick to join your Tears Forbear not till an Ocean round it flows And it an Island grows It may be safe encompass'd with our Sea But never Fortunate can be While Nonsence shall have Friends and Sence have Foes May 7 th 1700. S. F. Upon the Death of Mr. DRYDEN By Mr. Digby Cotes of Magdalen-Hall Oxon A Young Gentleman Sixteen Years Old WHen now at length the Great Apollo's Dead And ev'ry Muse with its lov'd Patron 's fled What daring Bard will venture to set forth His mighty Name and celebrate His Worth Whose least Perfections our whole Wonder raise Despise our Envy and transcend our Praise Himself alone could His vast Beauties shew And all the Poet in Perfection draw Could trace each finer Thought each Heav'nly Line And make himself in His full Lustre shine Then had the God-like Absalom reveal'd A Nobler Plot than he himself Conceal'd Then might Achitophel again be View'd And all his Image in His Son renew'd Factious and turbulent new Plots he lay's And still the false Achitophel betrays Yet such fair Baits the specious Plots Disguise We scarce discern the Well-wrought Artifice But think ev'n St y True and M th Wise. Thus when some meaner Thoughts Thy Muse engage And Mac or B e urge thy juster Rage So much their Folly's in their Writings sink That the vile Scriblers seem at least to think Methoughts I saw the mighty Phoebus fir'd With just Revenge with all His Rage Inspir'd Full of Himself through Heav'ns vast Space he rode While sparkling Flames confess'd the angry God Neglected Dryden all involv'd His Rage And claim'd just Vengeance on a barb'rous Age. With Grief he view'd Him strugling with His Fate Opprest with Wants and despicably Great While all her self His drooping Muse betray'd And Nature's rising Efforts thô decay'd When these Prophetick Curses eas'd His Breast And thus the lab'ring God his Rage exprest Since Charming Dryden has so late confest Your base returns and prov'd your barb'rous tast Still may your long successive Dulness reign Still may your Sons the War with Wit maintain Let C e still the Ladies Pity raise And Torture one poor Maid a thousand ways While pleas'd or Griev'd she still the Mourning Bride betrays Let Ways o' th' World in three dull years be writ And want of time excuse his want of Wit M●● your nice Tasts contemn each Nobler Art While all things pass rewarded but Desert Again let Blustring B y huff the Age With words more dreadful than his Tyrant's Rage He said When strait his Messengers he sent And to himself recall'd the Treasure he had lent Th' afflicted Bard receiv'd the glad Command And urg'd himself his Hast and left th' ungrateful Land Thus af●●r many long revolving Years When the last Series of her Life appears The Noble Phoenix hast's Her sluggish Date With lighted Torch and urge's on her Fate Her mighty self involve's her numerous Fame While on her Death depend's her future Name Her self her self survive's and sparkl's from the Flame This well-known Truth let long Experience prove We hate what 's Present but what 's absent love Still rival'd Malice haunts our envy'd breath And Poets only Triumph after Death On the Death of John Dryden Esq FArewell Oh more than Greece or Rome cold boast More Worth than all those two fam'd Empires lost Great Poet whose Unimitable Arts A Thousand ways engag'd the Readers Hearts Thy Verse so T●neful so sublime thy Song Thy Turns so delicate thy Periods strong Whose solid Judgment held the guided Reins Whilst Fancy soar'd beyond M●eonian Strains Apollo Crown'd Thee with Triumphant Bays The Muses tun'd their Voices to thy Lays And all the Learned World gave Thee unenvy'd Praise Since L●rick Songs have rais'd a Lasting Name Since ●ne Admired Poem could Proclaim As well the Poets as the ●eroe's Fame Since moving Strains of Tender Love have made Ner●e-dying Laurels flourish round a Head And Pointed Satyrs F●rce alone prefer'd To Endless Ages the Censorious Bard How

Alexis Shepherd thy fears were Just the sad portent Is fatally explain'd in this Event For as that Sheep thy wand'ring Flock did lead Just so Palaemon did the Shepherds Head When growing Worth reach'd forward to the Bays He would with Joy the bold Pretender raise And be himself the Herald to his Praise Fix'd high in fame He gladly did dispense To blooming Wit a rip'ning Influence If o'er inform'd the Muse would soar too high And on advent'rous Pinions sought the Sky To bring her gently down he knew the Lure And made her fall Delightful and Secure Or should her flames on 〈◊〉 Wing● aspir● With active Vigour he 'd improve the Fire But while I strive to pay the Debt I owe To His commanding Skill I only Show How high it was in Him in me how low Yet this I have however to excuse The flowing Error of a Mourning Muse That when this uninspir'd Scroll was writ W 'had lost the Genius of our English Wit T. A. An Essay on the Death of Mr. Dryden THe justest Grief that can on Fate attend We owe the loss of Father and of Friend Mourn ev'ry Muse let all your Streams be dry But such as Sorrows lavish from the Eye That only can Inspire with Elegy To all Your softer Charms a long adieu Those Beauties Sacred Bard are lost with you Our Oracles are ceas'd our Language dies We 've scarce Expression left us but in Sighs Fain would I pay the mighty Debt I owe In flowing Words but Tears will only flow My kindling flame You kindly fann'd and taught T' ascend above and stop below a Fault By Precept and Example form'd my Mind And Wisdom's stricter bounds to Wit assignd By others faults instructed me to choose With care the Graceful for 〈◊〉 guilty blush Shew'd me where weighty Words where Figures please And where fair Nature shines without a Dress And all the Sterling Wealth my Issue wear's I own the fertile Product of Your Cares But now in vain are all those Labours spent The Muse can only help me to Lament Tell me Ye Widowed Nine for You can tell By all how Lov'd how Prais'd how Mourn'd he fell The Genius of our Isle He brought us home The Learned Spoils of Athens and of Rome And in our Native Tongue by him Refin'd Their richest Oar is with His Numbers join'd With Homer's plenty His Didactics flow Yet Virgil's Care their chast Expressions show More num'rous Joys not Horace could Inspire Nor touch with cleaner hands the charming Lyre When artless Nature He essay'd the Fair Felt Ovid's Softness and Tibullus's Air. And to suppress the blooming growth of Vice The fire and force of Iuvenal was His. Terence ne'er pleas'd a judging Audience With juster Characters or weightier Sense Nor Martial could in Miniature express A closer Thought or better Praise and Please What happy Genii furnish'd later Time With useful Numbers were but Types of Him They each excell'd in some one shining Part Of Verse but He in all the Sacred Art Ye Pious Few that to the Muse belong Pay at his T●●b th● 〈◊〉 o● your Song And tell the list'ning World no Age must know Another Universal Mind below Tell all the Great and Good their Glorious Aim And conscious Worth must now suffice for Fame And tell the brightest Stars in either Sphere No Vertue soar'd above his Flights but Their Thither th' aspiring Bard is Wing'd away Where her bright Fires guild an Eternal day To sing with His Her still united Rays But here Expression fails a thoughtful Breast Too big for Words can only feel the rest An ODE On the Death of John Dryden Esq By a Young LADY I. AS when Plebeians at a Monarch's Death Which should not be Prophan'd by Vulgar Breath With sawcy Grief bewail the Fate Of him they fear'd almost Ador'd of late Presumptuous in their Tears thô helpless in their State So I the Muse's meanest Subject join The Sorrows of the Great with mine And thô I cannot Tribute pay T' acknowledge Their Imperial Sway With arrogant yet conscious Grief presume To shed a Tear at Their Vicegerent's awful Tomb. II. Ah! who could think that God-like Man Immortal in our Thoughts as in His own Should have no greater Favour shown And thô with ev'ry Art and Grace Endow'd Should have a Life but of the usual Span And shrink into a Common Shroud Yet shall not His unequal'd Merit die Nor all the wrongs of Fate His Lawrels blast Thô Albion's Realms should be Destroy'd and Wast And in forgotten Ruins lye Fame's ecchoing Trump His Glories shall rehearse To all the wond'ring Universe Till its shrill Voice be swallow'd up in what shall sound the Last III. Sure Poets are not made of Common Earth Or He at least may boast a Nobler Birth He who in ev'ry Atom was Inspir'd With flowing Fancy and with Rapture fir'd Thô the great Secret's not disclos'd He surely was like Thebes with artful Tunes Compos'd The Voices of the soft Melodious Nine In Consort join'd Apollo's forming Lyre And Light ineffable infus'd its Fire With Tuneful Measures Harmony Divine At the glad Sacred all-commanding Sound With Animation passing Vulgar Thought The knowing willing Atoms came And danc'd into the Sacred Frame And bless'd Idea's brought Which fill'd His Soul and Ours with Rapture drown'd IV. It must be so for nothing else could dart Such Beams of Knowledge and Celestial Art So clear a Judgment and so bright a Mind Like it 's Almighty Maker ever Young And amid'st Weakness Strong Thô Age and Sickness both against it join'd But why did Phoebus and the Nine A Piece so Perfect make If we their Workmanship must now resign And they again the Blessing take Why was Thy Body most Illustrious Shade Like others made Subject to Casualties and Fate And comon ills which wait a Mortal State When thy Celestial Mind Had nothing of base Human kind But full of Inspiration spread It 's noble Ardour and its God-like Rage Whose Works shall be with Pleasure read By ev'ry coming Age. And Fame shall make Thee Live thô Fate has made Thee Dead V. Apollo once before a Temple bless'd Where all th' Inquisitive might come For an Ambiguous Doom And splendid Pomp amaz'd the Curious Guest Yet with less Glory could at Delphos shine Where Floors of Marble Roofs of Gold Did his Orac'lous God-head hold Than in thy living Shrine There He was check'd with a Priest-riding Yoke Nor till the Block-head pleas'd the God-head spoke But Phoebus ha's been always free And spoke without restraint in Thee In Thee with the same Pomp His Rays appear'd As when upon his bright Imperial Seat Where He the shining Scepter rear'd Beyond Expression great But Oh! that Deity is Silent now Silent as is Thy Tomb which claim 's our Tears No more the God within thy Voice appear's Nor speak's through Thee what we should know As from thy Lips the Graces flow As from thy Lips the Graces flow But all the lesser Lights of Wit Expire All