III.

To mine honest as loving Friend, Mr. Michael Drayton.

Michael, where art thou? what's become of thee?

Have the Nine Wenches stol'n thee from thyself? Or from their conversation dost thou flee,

Sith they are rich in science, not in pelf?
Be not unconstant, Michael, in thy love

To girls so graceful in the heart and face,
Altho' thereby thou mayst a poet prove,
(That's poor as Job) yet ever those embrace,
By whom thou dost enjoy a heaven on earth,
And in this vale of tears a mount of mirth.

IV.

To the truly noble Lord, deservedly al-be-loved, the Lord North. Most noble Lord, that truest worthiness

Which in thy nature and thy carriage shines,
Doth press me now to make them pass the press,
Led thereto by these too-slack-twisted lines.
Thou art a subject worthy of the Muse,

When most she reigns in height of happiness;
Into whose noble sprite the heavens infuse
All gifts and graces, gracing nobleness.
In few there are so many parts in thee,

All wholly noble, as thus fix'd shall be,

On Fame's wings when she past herself doth flee.

V.

To the most judicious and excellent Lyric Poet, Doctor Cam

pion.*

Upon myself I should just vengeance take,
Should I omit thy mention in my rhymes,

Tho. Campion. See Excerpta Tudoriana.

Whose lines and notes do lullaby awake

In heavens of pleasure, these unpleasant times,
Never did Lyrics more than happy strains,
Strain'd out of art by nature, so with ease
So purely hit the moods, and various veins
Of music, and her hearers, as do these.
So thou canst cure the body and the mind,
Rare Doctor, with thy two-fold soundest art;
Hippocrates hath taught thee the one kind;
Apollo, and the Muse the other part:

And both so well, that thou well both dost please,
The mind with pleasure, and the corpse with ease.

VI.

To the right well deserving Mr. Matthew Royden.
Matthew, thou hast ta'en custom now so long
Of arts abstruse, that I do inly long

To call thee loudly to attend on grace,

That leads to glory those that Art do grace.
Thou hadst a Muse as potent in her power,
As those in which the heavens all graces pour.
Then as my rhymes equivocally meet,
So double fame for thy like art is meet.

VII.

To my kind friend Mr. Charles Best.*

Charles, thou hast law, and thou hast conscience too;
So dost in conscience what some others do,
That thrive not by it; but be rul'd by me;
Let law and conscience now so be in thee,
That thou may'st live by law, in lawful wise,
Sith Time now silenceth the too precise.

But if thou wilt be mute among thy letters,
Thou shalt be best, but worse shall be thy betters.

* The same probably who was a contributor to Davison's Poetical Rhapsody

VIII.

To the well-deserving Mr. John Fletcher.

Love lies a bleeding, if it should not prove
Her utmost art to shew why it did love.
Thou being the subject now it reigns upon,
Reign'st in art, judgment, and invention:
For this I love thee, and can do no less,
For thine as fair, as faithful Shepherdess.

IX.

To the wittily pleasant Sir J. H.*

In Martial's time a pleasant poet liv'd,

Height Canius, whose spirit doth haunt me still : If merry Martial be from death repriev'd

By thy mad Muse, Canius, reprieve I will:

If thou be Martial, and I Canius be,

Then all the world will laugh at thee and me.

X.

To our English Terence, Mr. William Shake-spere.

Some say, good Will, which I'in sport do sing, Hadst thou not play'd some Kingly parts in sport,

Thou hadst been a companion for a King;

And been a King among the meaner sort.
Some others rail: but rail, as they think fit,
Thou hast no railing, but a reigning wit,

And honesty thou sow'st, which they do reap;
So to increase their stock, which they do keep.

* Sir John Harington.

XI.

To my well-accomplished friend Mr. Ben Jonson.

I love thy parts; so, must I love thy whole;

Then still be whole in thy beloved parts:
Thou, art sound in body; but some say thy soul
Envy doth ulcer; yet corrupted hearts

Such censurers may have: but if thou be
An envious soul, would thou couldst envy me!
But oh! I fear my virtues are too dark,
For Envy's shadow from so bright a spark.

XII.

To my honoured friend, John Murray,* Esq. brother to Sir James, &c.

Murray, I muse which colours I should use

To paint thy nature out, and deck thy name: When I bethink me of thy Phonix Muse,

I fear all colours will be found to blame.
She, like that rare Arabian Bird, is such,

That richest words by rhetoricians us'd,
Will be but shadows, or not all so much;
These need her painter's skill be heaven-infus'd.
Thy mother-wit and science are of power

To make self-fairness foul, and foulness fair.
Then sith my Muse too heavy is to tower,
I'll say no more but this; I do despair:
For art may paint the coals, or flames of fire,
But light and heat above all art aspire.

* Cousin to the Author of Sophonisba and Cælia, 1611. T. P.

XIII.

To mine honoured friend, Sir James Murray,* Kt.

Thou being Brother of my best-belov'd,

I must for that, and for thyself beside,

Rank thee among mine honour'd friends approv'd,
Wherein I range the power of all my pride.
Ye brothers were within your mother's womb
Made Muses' minions: for, from thence ye drew
Pure Helicon to that yet empty room

Your brain-pan, fill'd with air, ere art ye knew:
There virtually ye both rare poets were,
Here actually ye rarely shew the same;
That's seld, but bright; as that star did appear
To light the wise, to find out wisdom's aim:
Then sith the laurel's yours by right of birth,
My Muse must laurel-crown your fames on earth.

XIV.

To my worthily disposed friend, Mr. Sam. Daniell. I hear thy Muse in Court doth travell now :

Art speed her feet, and grace there speed her plough.

If they come short, then gain by other drifts,

The more thou getst, the more it's like thy gifts.

If yet too short, to add another size,

Get one foot's length, thou by thy feet shalt rise,
With Pegasus, from Parnass to the skies.

XV.

To my worthily beloved Mr. William Alexander of Menstric.

Great Alexander, whose successful sword

Made him a God with men, achiev'd no more

Author of a Poem on Prince Henry.

+Kd. 1613. Afterwards Earl of Stirling.