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WRITE not here, as if thy last in store
Of learned friends; 'tis known that thou

hast more ;

Who, were they told of this, would find a way
To rise a guard of poets without pay,
And bring as many hands to thy edition,
As th’ City should unto their Vay’rs petition :
But thou wouldst none of this, lest it should be
Thy muster rather, than our courtesie;
Thou wouldst not beg as knights do, and appeare
Poet by voice, and suffrage of the Shire;
That were enough to make my Muse advance
Amongst the crutches, nay it might enhance
Our charity, and we should think it fit
The State should build an hospital for wit.

But here needs no reliefe : Thy richer Verse
Creates all poets, that can but reherse,
And they, like tenants better'd by their land,
Should pay thee rent for what they understand :
Thou art not of that lamentable nation,
Who make a blessed alms of approbation,
Whose fardel-notes' are briefes in ev'ry thing,


1 A fardel' is = a little pack or bundle. So in Shake. speare several times. Query supra trivial notes? G.

But, that they are not licens'd by the king.
Without such scrape-requests thou dost come forth
Arm'd-though I speak it - with thy proper worth,
And needest not this noise of friends, for wee
Write out of love, not thy necessitie;
And though this sullen age posessed be
With some strange desamour' to poetrie,
Yet I suspect-my? funcy so delights-
The Puritans will turn thy proselytes,
And that thy flane when once abroad it shines,
Will bring thee as many fi ienils, as thou hast lines.




something to cause hate. See foot-note in our Phineas Fletcher (ii. 61, 132.) G.

• Thy' but in errata marked to be read 'my'. G. 3 Id est, Thomas Vaughan, as before. G.


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Olor Escanus.

HEN Daphne's lover here first wore the

bayes, Eurotas secret streams heard all his

layes, And holy Orpheus, Nature's busie child, By headlong Hebrus his deep hymns compil'd. Soft Petrarch—thaw'd by Laura's flames—did

weep On Tyber's banks, when she-prou'd fair !

cou'd sleep; Mosella boasts Ausonius, and the Thames Doth murmure Sidney's Stella to her streams; While Severn swoln with joy and sorrow, wears Castara's smiles mixt with fair Sabrin's tears."

Misprinted .sworn' but marked in the errata. G. ? The allusion is to Habington, whose lady-love and afterwards wife, was Lucy, daughter of William Herbert, first Lord Powis, by Eleanor, daughter of Henry Percy, first earl of Northumberland. Her poetic name Castara'. See Essay in present volume for more. G.



Thus Poets-like the nymphs, their pleasing

themesHaunted the bubling springs and gliding streams, And happy banks! whence such fair flowres have

sprung, But happier those where they have sate and sung! Poets-like angels -- where they once appear Hallow the place, and each succeeding year Adds rev'rence to’t, such as at length doth give This aged faith, that there their genii live. Hence th' auncients say, That from this sickly

aire They passe to regions more refin'd and faire, To meadows strow'd with lillies and the rose, And shades whose youthfull green no old age

knowes : Where all in white they walk, discourse, and sing Like bees' soft murmurs, or a chiding spring.

But Isca, whensoe'r those shades I see, And thy lov'd arbours must no more know me, When I am layd to rest hard by thy streams, And my sun sets, where first it sprang in beams, Il'e leave behind me such a large, kind light, As shall redeeme thee from oblivious night, And in these vowes which--living yet-I pay, Shed such a previous' and enduring ray,

pervious. G.

As shall from age to age thy fair name lead, 'Till rivers leave to run, and men to read.

First, may all bards born after me

- When I am ashes-sing of thee!
May thy green banks or streams, -or none--
Be both their rill and Helicon ;
May vocall groves grow there, and all
The shades in them propheticall,
Where-laid-men shall more faire truths see
Than fictions were of Thessalie.
May thy gentle swains-like flowres-
Sweetly spend their youthfull houres,
And thy beauteous nymphs-like doves-
Be kind and faithfull to their loves ;
Garlands, and songs, and roundelayes,
Mild, dewie nights, and sun-shine dayes,
The turtle's voyce, joy without fear,
Dwell on thy bosome all the year!
May the evet' and the tode?
Within thy banks have no abode,
Nor the wilie, winding snake
Her voyage through thy waters make.
In all thy journey to the main
No nitrous clay, nor brimstone-vein
Mise with thy streams, but may they passe

i Newt. G.

? Toad. G.

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