Classic Poem

UPON SIR JOHN DENHAM'S RECOVERY FROM HIS MADNESS .

Sir , you've outliv'd so desperate a fit.
As none could do but an immortal wit;
Had your's been less, all helps had been in vain,
And thrown away, though on a less sick brain;
But you were so far from receiving hurt,
You grew improv'd, and much the better for't.
As when the' Arabian bird does sacrifice,
And burn himself in his own country's spice,
A maggot first breeds in his pregnant urn,
Which after does to a young phaenix turn:
So your hot brain, burnt in its native fire,
Did life renew'd, and vigorous youth acquire;
And with so much advantage, some have guest,
Your after-wit is like to be your best,
And now expect far greater matters of ye
Than the bought Cooper's Hill, or borrow'd Sophy;
Such as your Tully lately dress'd in verse,
Like those he made himself, or not much worse;
And Seneca's dry sand unmix'd with lime,
Such as you cheat the King with, botch'd in rhyme.
Nor were your morals less improv'd, all pride
And native insolence quite laid aside;
And that ungovern'd outrage; that was wont
All, that you durst with safety, to affront.
No China cupboard rudely overthrown,
Nor lady tipp'd, by being accosted, down;
No poet jeer'd, for scribbling amiss,
With verses forty times more lewd than his:
Nor did your crutch give battle to your duns,
And hold it out, where you had built a sconce;
Nor furiously laid orange-wench aboard,
For asking what in fruit and love you'd scor'd;
But all civility and complacence,
More than you ever us'd before or since.
Beside, you never over-reach'd the King
One farthing, all the while, in reckoning;
Nor brought in false accompt, with little tricks
Of passing broken rubbish for whole bricks;
False mustering of workmen by the day,
Deduction out of wages, and dead pay
For those that never liv'd; all which did come,
By thrifty management, to no small sum.
You pull'd no lodgings down, to build them worse,
Nor repair'd others, to repair your purse,
As you were wont, till all you built appear'd
Like that Amphion with his fiddle rear'd:
For had the stones (like his) charm'd by your verse,
Built up themselves, they could not have done worse:
And sure, when first you ventur'd to survey,
You did design to do't no other way.
All this was done before those days began
In which you were a wise and happy man:
For who e'er liv'd in such a paradise,
Until fresh straw and darkness op'd your eyes?
Who ever greater treasure could command,
Had nobler palaces, and richer land,
Than you had then, who could raise sums as vast
As all the cheats of a Dutch war could waste,
Or all those practis'd upon public money?
For nothing, but your cure, could have undone ye,
For ever are you bound to curse those quacks
That undertook to cure your happy cracks;
For though no art can ever make them sound,
The tampering cost you threescore thousand pound.
How high might you have liv'd, and play'd, and lost,
Yet been no more undone by being choust;
Nor forc'd upon the King's accompt to lay
All that, in serving him, you lost at play!
For nothing but your brain was ever found
To suffer sequestration, and compound.
Yet you 'ave an imposition laid on brick,
For all you then laid out at Beast or Gleek;
And when you've rais'd a sum, straight let it fly,
By understanding low, and venturing high;
Until you have reduc'd it down to tick,
And then recruit again from lime and brick.