English

All my yeeres comforts, fall in Showres of Teares,
That this full Spring of Man, This VERE of VERES,

*****

Famine should barre my Fruites, whose Bountie breedes them,
The faithlesse World loue to deuoure who feedes them.
Now can th'Exempt Ile from the World, no more
(With all her arm'd Fires) such a Spring restore.
The dull Earth thinkes not This; Though should I summe
The Master-Martiall Spirits of Christendome,
In his few Nerues; My Summe (t'a thought) were true.
But who liues now, that giues true Worth his due?

All lest Good , That but onely aymes at Great ,
I know (best Earle ) may boldly make retreat
To your Retreat , from this Worlds open Ill .
Of Goodnesse therefore, The Prime part (the Will )
Enflam'd my Pow'rs , to celebrate as farre
As their force reacht, This Thunderbolt of Warre .
His wisht Good , and the true Note of his Worth ,
(Yet neuer, to his full Desert , set forth)
Being Root , and Top , to this his Plant of Fame ,
Which cannot furnish with an Anagram
Of iust Offence , and Desire to wrest

Habrotonon . Look, Onêsimus.
What do you say to this? The thought has just
Struck me. Suppose . . . suppose I make the whole
Adventure mine. I'll take the ring and go
In there to play to them.
ONÊSIMUS . Go on. Explain.
Though I can guess.
HAB . He'll see it on my finger.
He'll ask me where I got it; and I'll say,
" At last year's Tauropolia, when I was

The Persons Pheme and Theodines .

P HE . Ho! you! Theodines you must not dreame
Y'are thus dismist in Peace, seas too extreame
Your song hath stird vp, to be calmd so soone:
Nay, in your hauen you shipwracke, y'are vndone,
Your Perseus is displeasd, and sleighteth now
Your worke, as idle, and as seruile, yow.
The Peoples god-voice, hath exclamd away
Your mistie cloudes, and he sees cleere as day
Y'aue made him scandald for anothers wrong,
Wishing vnpublisht your vnpopular song.

A WAY , vngodly Vulgars, far away,
Flie ye prophane, that dare not view the day,
Nor speake to men but shadowes, nor would heare
Of any newes, but what seditious were,
Hatefull and harmefull euer to the best,
Whispering their scandals, glorifying the rest,
Jmpious, and yet gainst all ills but your owne,
The hotest sweaters of religion;
Whose poysons all things to your spleenes peruert,
And all streames measure by the Fount your Heart,
That are in nought but misrule regulare,
To whose eyes all seeme ill, but those that are,

As nothing vnder heauen is more remou'd
From Truth & virtue, then Opinions prou'd
By vulgar Voices : So is nought more true
Nor soundly virtuous then things held by few:
Whom Knowledge (entred by the sacred line,
And gouernd euermore by grace diuine,)
Keepes in the narrow path to spacious heauen,
And therefore, should no knowing spirit be driuen
From fact, nor purpose; for the spleens prophane
Of humours errant, and Plebeian;
But, Famelike, gather force as he goes forth,
The Crowne of all Acts ends in onely worth.

Thus shooke I this abortiue from my Braine;
Which, with it, laie in this vnworthy paine:
Yet since your HOMER had his worthy hand
In vent'ring this delaie of your Command,
To end his Iliades; deigne (Great Prince of men)
To holde before it your great Shielde; and then
It may, doe seruice, worthy this delaie,
To your more worthy Pleasure; and I maie
Regather the sperst fragments of my spirits,
And march with HOMER through his deathless merits,
To your vndying graces. Nor did he
Vanish with this slight vision; but brought me

So Learned men, in controuersies spend
(Of tongues, and tearmes, readings, and labours pend)
Their whole liues studies; Glorie, Riches, Place,
In full crie, with the vulgare giuing Chace;
And neuer, with their learnings true vse striue
To bridle strifes within them; and to liue
Like men of Peace, whome Art of Peace begat:
But, as their deedes, are most adulterate,
And showe them false Sons, to their Peacefull Mother,
In those warres; so their Arts, are prov'd no other.
And let the best of them, a search impose

Wretched estate of men, by fortune blest;
That being euer idle, neuer rest;
That haue goods, ere they earne them; and for that,
Want art to vse them. To bee wonderd at
Is Iustice; for Proportion, Ornament;
None of the Graces, is so excellent.
Vile things, adorne her: me thought, once I sawe
How, by the Seas shore, she sat giuing lawe
Euen to the streames, and fish (most loose, and wilde)
And was (to my thoughts) wondrous sweet and milde;
Yet fire flew from her that dissolued Rocks;

I grant their strangenesse, and their too ill grace,
And too much wretchednesse, to beare the face
Or any likenesse of my soule in them:
Whose Instruments, I rue with many a Streame
Of secret Teares for their extream defects,
In vttering her true forms: but their respects
Need not be less'ned, for their being strange,
Or not so vulgar, as the rest that range
With headlong Raptures, through the multitude:
Of whom they get grace, for their being rude.
Nought is so shund by Virtue, throwne from Truth,