I write not here, as if thy last in store
Of learnèd friends; 'tis known that thou hast more;
Who, were they told of this, would find a way
To raise a guard of poets without pay,
And bring as many hands to thy edition,
As th' City should unto their May'r's petition.
But thou wouldst none of this, lest it should be
Thy muster rather than our courtesy;
Thou wouldst not beg as knights do, and appear
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 relief: thy richer verse
Creates all poets, that can but rehearse,
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 briefs in ev'rything,
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 we
Write out of love, not thy necessity.
And though this sullen age possessèd be
With some strange desamour to poetry,
Yet I suspect--thy fancy so delights--
The Puritans will turn thy proselytes,
And that thy flame, when once abroad it shines,
Will bring thee as many friends as thou hast lines.