LITMIR.BIZ

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was born,

       So long and mortally could disagree

       So many nations as for Homer striv'd,

       Unless his spur in them had been divine.

       Then end their strife and love him, thus receiv'd,

       As born in England; see him over-shine

       All other-country poets; and trust this,

       That whosesoever Muse dares use her wing

       When his Muse flies, she will be truss'd by his,

       And show as if a bernacle should spring

       Beneath an eagle. In none since was seen

       A soul so full of heav'n as earth's in him.

       O! if our modern Poesy had been

       As lovely as the lady he did limn,

       What barbarous worldling, grovelling after gain,

       Could use her lovely parts with such rude hate,

       As now she suffers under ev'ry swain?

       Since then 'tis nought but her abuse and Fate,

       That thus impairs her, what is this to her

       As she is real, or in natural right?

       But since in true Religion men should err

       As much as Poesy, should the abuse excite

       The like contempt of her divinity,

       And that her truth, and right saint-sacred merits,

       In most lives breed but rev'rence formally,

       What wonder is't if Poesy inherits

       Much less observance, being but agent for her,

       And singer of her laws, that others say?

       Forth then, ye moles, sons of the earth, abhor her,

       Keep still on in the dirty vulgar way,

       Till dirt receive your souls, to which ye vow,

       And with your poison'd spirits bewitch our thrifts.

       Ye cannot so despise us as we you;

       Not one of you above his mole-hill lifts

       His earthy mind, but, as a sort of beasts,

       Kept by their guardians, never care to hear

       Their manly voices, but when in their fists

       They breathe wild whistles, and the beasts' rude ear

       Hears their curs barking, then by heaps they fly

       Headlong together; so men, beastly giv'n,

       The manly soul's voice, sacred Poesy,

       Whose hymns the angels ever sing in heav'n,

       Contemn and hear not; but when brutish noises,

       For gain, lust, honour, in litigious prose

       Are bellow'd out, and crack the barbarous voices

       Of Turkish stentors, O, ye lean to those,

       Like itching horse to blocks or high may-poles;

       And break nought but the wind of wealth, wealth, all

       In all your documents; your asinine souls,

       Proud of their burthens, feel not how they gall.

       But as an ass, that in a field of weeds

       Affects a thistle, and falls fiercely to it,

       That pricks and galls him, yet he feeds, and bleeds,

       Forbears a while, and licks, but cannot woo it

       To leave the sharpness; when, to wreak his smart,

       He beats it with his foot, then backward kicks,

       Because the thistle gall'd his forward part;

       Nor leaves till all be eat, for all the pricks,

       Then falls to others with as hot a strife,

       And in that honourable war doth waste

       The tall heat of his stomach, and his life;

       So in this world of weeds you worldlings taste

       Your most-lov'd dainties, with such war buy peace,

       Hunger for torment, virtue kick for vice,

       Cares for your states do with your states increase,

       And though ye dream ye feast in Paradise,

       Yet reason's daylight shews ye at your meat

       Asses at thistles, bleeding as ye eat.

      THE PREFACE TO THE READER

      Of all books extant in all kinds, Homer is the first and best. No one before his, Josephus affirms; nor before him, saith Velleius Paterculus, was there any whom he imitated, nor after him any that could imitate him. And that Poesy may be no cause of detraction from all the eminence we give him, Spondanus (preferring it to all arts and sciences) unanswerably argues and proves; for to the glory of God, and the singing of his glories, no man dares deny, man was chiefly made. And what art performs this chief end of man with so much excitation and expression as Poesy; Moses, David, Solomon, Job, Esay, Jeremy, etc. chiefly using that to the end abovesaid? And since the excellence of it cannot be obtained by the labour and art of man, as all easily confess it, it must needs be acknowledged a Divine infusion. To prove which in a word, this distich, in my estimation, serves something nearly:

      Great Poesy, blind Homer, makes all see

       Thee capable of all arts, none of thee.

      For out of him, according to our most grave and judicial Plutarch, are all Arts deduced, confirmed, or illustrated. It is not therefore the world's vilifying of it that can make it vile; for so we might argue, and blaspheme the most incomparably sacred. It is not of the world indeed, but, like truth, hides itself from it. Nor is there any such reality of wisdom's truth in all human excellence, as in Poets' fictions. That most vulgar and foolish receipt of poetical licence being of all knowing men to be exploded, accepting it, as if Poets had a tale-telling privilege above others, no Artist being so strictly and inextricably confined to all the laws of learning, wisdom, and truth, as a Poet. For were not his fictions composed of the sinews and souls of all those, how could they defy fire, iron, and be combined with eternity? To all sciences therefore, I must still, with our learned and ingenious Spondanus, refer it, as having a perpetual commerce with the Divine Majesty, embracing and illustrating all His most holy precepts, and enjoying continual discourse with His thrice perfect and most comfortable Spirit. And as the contemplative life is most worthily and divinely preferred by Plato to the active, as much as the head to the foot, the eye to the hand, reason to sense, the soul to the body, the end itself to all things directed to the end, quiet to motion, and eternity to time; so much prefer I divine Poesy to all worldly wisdom. To the only shadow of whose worth, yet, I entitle not the bold rhymes of every apish and impudent braggart, though he dares assume anything; such I turn over to the weaving of cobwebs, and shall but chatter on molehills (far under the hill of the Muses) when their fortunatest self-love and ambition hath advanced them highest. Poesy is the flower of the Sun, and disdains to open to the eye of a candle. So kings hide their treasures and counsels from the vulgar, ne evilescant (saith our Spond.). We have example sacred enough, that true Poesy's humility, poverty, and contempt, are badges of divinity, not vanity. Bray then, and bark against it, ye wolf-faced worldlings, that nothing but honours, riches, and magistracy, nescio quos turgidè spiratis (that I may use the words of our friend still) qui solas leges Justinianas crepatis; paragraphum unum aut alterum, pluris quàm vos ipsos facitis, etc. I (for my part) shall ever esteem it much more manly and sacred, in this harmless and pious study, to sit till I sink into my grave, than shine in your vainglorious bubbles and impieties; all your poor policies, wisdoms, and their trappings, at no more valuing than a musty nut. And much less I weigh the frontless detractions of some stupid ignorants, that, no more knowing me than their own beastly ends, and I ever (to my knowledge) blest from their sight, whisper behind me vilifyings

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