woes,

So crown'd the light with him his mother's throes,

As through his great Renowner I have wrought,

And my safe sail to sacred anchor brought. Nor did the Argive ship more burthen feel, That bore the care of all men in her keel, Than my adventurous bark; the Colchian fleece

Not half so precious as this soul of Greece, In whose songs I have made our shores rejoice,

And Greek itself veil to our English voice. Yet this inestimable pearl will all

Our dunghill chanticleers but obvious call; Each modern scraper this gem scratching by,

His oat preferring far. Let such, let lie. So scorn the stars the clouds, as true-soul'd

men

Despise deceivers. For, as clouds would fain Obscure the stars, yet (regions left below With all their envies) bar them but of show, For they shine ever, and will shine, when they

Dissolve in sinks, make mire, and temper clay;

So puff'd impostors (our muse-vapours) strive,

With their self-blown additions, to deprive Men solid of their full, though infinite short

They come in their compare; and false report

That still retain their radiance, and clear right,

And shall shine ever, when, alas! one blast

Of least disgrace tears down th' impostor's mast;

His tops and tacklings, his whole freight, and he

Confiscate to the fishy monarchy, His trash, by foolish Fame brought now, from hence

Given to serve mackarel forth, and frankin

cense.

Such then, and any too soft-eyed to

see,

Through works so solid, any worth, so free

Of all the learn'd professions, as is fit To praise at such price; let him think his wit

Too weak to rate it, rather than oppose With his poor powers ages and hosts of foes.

TO THE RUINS OF TROY AND GREECE.

TROY razed; Greece wrack'd; who mourns? Ye both may boast,

Else th' Iliads and Odysseys had been lost !*

* See The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois, (Vol. i. p. 190.)

THE only true God (betwixt whom and me
I only bound my comforts, and agree
With all my actions) only truly knows,
And can judge truly me, with all that
goes

To all my faculties. In whose free grace
And inspiration I only place

prayer,

All means to know (with my means, study, In and from his word taken) stair by stair,

In all continual contentation, rising To knowledge of his Truth, and practising

your kisses

Betray but truth, and your applauds are hisses.

To see our supercilious wizards frown, Their faces fall'n like fogs, and coming down,

Stinking the sun out, makes me shine the

more;

And like a check'd flood bear above the shore,

That their profane opinions fain would set To what they see not, know not, nor can let.

Yet then our learn'd men with their torrents

come,

Roaring from their forced hills, all crown'd with foam,

That one not taught like them, should learn to know

Their Greek roots, and from thence the groves that grow,

Casting such rich shades, from great HOMER'S wings,

That first and last command the Muses® springs.

Though he's best scholar, that, through pains and vows

Made his own master only, all things knows.

Nor pleads my poor skill form, or learned place,

But dauntless labour, constant prayer and grace.

And what's all their skill, but vast varied reading?

As if broad-beaten highways had the leading

To Truth's abstract and narrow path and pit;

Found in no walk of any worldly wit. And without Truth, all's only sleight of hand,

Or our law-learning in a foreign land, Embroidery spent on cobwebs, braggart show

Of men that all things learn, and nothing know.

For ostentation humble Truth still flies,
And all confederate fashionists defies.
And as some sharp-brow'd doctor, English
born,

In much learn'd Latin idioms can adorn
A verse with rare attractions, yet become
His English Muse like an Arachnean loom,
Wrought spite of Pallas, and therein be-

wrays

More tongue than truth, begs, and adopts his bays;

So Ostentation, be he never so
Larded with labour to suborn his show,
Shall soothe within him but a bastard soul,
No more heaven heiring, than Earth's son,
the mole.

But as in dead calms emptiest smokes arise, Uncheck'd and free, up straight into the skies;

So drowsy Peace, that in her humour steeps All she affects, lets such rise while she sleeps.

Many, and most men, have of wealth least store,

But none the gracious shame that fits the

poor.

So most learn'd men enough are ignorant, But few the grace have to confess their want, Till lives and learnings come concomitant.

For from men's knowledges their lives' acts flow;

Vainglorious acts then vain prove all they know.

As night the life-inclining stars best shows'; So lives obscure the starriest souls disclose.

For me, let just men judge by what I show In acts exposed, how much I err or know; And let not envy make all worse than nought,

With her mere headstrong and quite brainless thought;

Others, for doing nothing, giving all,
And bounding all worth in her bursten gall,

God and my dear Redeemer rescue me From men's immane and mad impiety, And by my life and soul (sole known to them) Make me of palm, or yew, an anadem. And so, my sole God, the thrice sacred Trine,

Bear all th' ascription of all me and mine.

Supplico tibi, Domine, Pater et Dux rationis nostræ, ut nostræ nobilitatis recordemur quâ tu nos ornasti; et ut tu nobis præstò sis, ut iis qui per sese moventur; ut et à corporis contagio, brutorumque affectuum repurgemur, eosque superemus, atque regamus; et, sicut decet, pro instrumentis iis utamur. Deinde, ut nobis adjumento sis, ad accuratam rationis nostræ correctionem, et conjunctionem cum iis qui verè sunt per lucem veritatis. tertium, Salvatori supplex oro, ut ab oculis animorum nostrorum caliginem prorsus abstergas, ut norimus bene qui Deus, aut mortalis habendus. Amen.

Et

Sine honore vivam, nulloque numero ero.

MASTER

FLETCHER,

Passage with ease, and state through both

sides' prease

Of pageant-seers: or, as scholars please That are no poets; more than poets learn'd,

Since their art solely is by souls discern'd; The other falls within the common sense, And sheds, like common light, her influence.

So, were your Play no Poem, but a thing That every cobbler to his patch might sing;

A rout of nifles (like the multitude)
With no one limb of any Art indued,
Like would to like, and praise you.
because

Your Poem only hath by us applause,

But