Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/162

 'Tis strange, perchance you'll think, that she, that died At Christmas, should at Easter be a bride: But 'tis a privilege the poets have, To take the long-since dead out of the grave. Nor is this all; old heroes, asleep 'Twixt marble coverlets, and six foot deep In earth, they boldly wake, and make them do All they did living here—sometimes more too. They give fresh life, reverse and alter fate, And (yet more bold) Almighty-like create, And out of nothing, only to deify Reason and Reason's friend, Philosophy: Fame, honour, valour, all that's great or good— Or is at least 'mongst us so understood— They give: heav'n's theirs; no handsome woman dies, But, if they please, is straight some star i' th' skies. But O, how those poor men of metre do Flatter themselves with that that is not true! And, 'cause they can trim up a little prose, And spoil it handsomely, vainly suppose They're omnipotent, can do all those things That can be done only by Gods and kings! Of this wild guilt he fain would be thought free, That writ this play; and therefore (sir) by me He humbly begs you would be pleas'd to know, Aglaura's but repriev'd this night; and, though She now appears upon a poet's call, She's not to live, unless you say she shall.