Than thy as happy pen hath well assur'd

Unto thy name, which glory doth decore. I know thee not; but know I should do ill, Not to take knowledge of what is in thee, When thou hast publish'd it with so great skill, Which makes thee o'er thy Monarchs sovereign be. For they being happy, prov'd unhappy men, Whom thou hast made most happy with thy pen.

XVI.

To the ingenious Mr. Joseph Hall.*

Thy vows hath made me vow to honour thee,
And here they shall in part performed be.
Thy scourge of Vice, thy sin-afflicting Muse
Erst plagued them thoroughly, who the world abuse,
And made them groan between thy Satire's fangs,
As if for sin of hell they felt the pangs.

For that and for the wit, the grace, the art,
Thou shew'st in all that from thy pen doth part,
My pen thus dimly tricks thee; wherein thou
May see thy substance, shadow'd by a shew,
That scarce is seen; the reason is, thine ALL
For my slight lines is too substantial.

XVII.

To my dear friend, Mr. Charles Fitz-jeffery.

Great little Charles, great in thine art and wit,
But ever little in thine own esteem,

To thee, that now dost mind but holy writ,

These lines, tho' loving, will but loathsome seem.

Yet sith in Latin you on such didst fall,

In British now, for now we Britons be,

VOL. II.

* Afterwards Bishop of Norwich.

D

I send in such: what? nothing but mine All:
That's less than nothing in respect of thee:
But, if thou tak'st in worth my less than nought,
I'll give thee more than all, when I am ought.

XVIII.

To most ingenious Mr. Francis Beaumont.

Some, that thy name abbreviate, call thee Frank;
So may they well, if they respect thy wit:
For like rich corn, that some fools call too rank,
All clean wit-reapers still are griping it :
And could I sow for thee to reap and use,
I should esteem it manna for the Muse.

XIX.

To my highly valued Mr. George Chapman, Father of our English Poets.

I know thee not, good George, but by thy pen,

For which I rank thee with the rarest men.

And in that rank I put thee in the front,

Especially of poets of account.

Who art the treasurer of that company;
But in thy hand too little coin doth lie.
For of all arts that now in London are,

Poets get least in uttering of their ware.

But thou hast in thy head, and heart, and hand,

Treasures of art, that treasure can command.

Ah, would they could! Then should thy wealth and wit

Be equal; and a lofty fortune fit.

But George, thou wert accurst; and so was I

To be of that most blessed company.

For, if they most are blest, that most are crost,

Then, Poets I am sure are blessed most.

Yet we with rhyme and reason trim the times,
Though they give little reason for our rhymes.
The reason is; else error blinds my wits,
They Reason want, to do what Honour fits.

But let them do, as please them, we must do,
What Phoebus, Sire of Art, moves Nature to.

XX.

To Mr. Thomas Bastard, and the Reader.

Bastard, thine Epigrams* to sport inclines,
Yet I protest, that one delights me best,
Which saith the Reader soon devours thy lines,
Which thou in many hours couldst scarce digest.
So fares it 'twixt the reader, and my Muse :

For that, which she compiles with pain, Got wot, This word she chooseth, that she doth refuse;

This line she interlines; that she doth blot: Here's too much ornament, and there it lacks ; This figure's far-fetcht, out with it again;

That phrase of affectation too much smacks;

This reason rhyme doth rack, and too much strain;

That simile's improper, mend the same;

This application's harsh; harmonious make it:

Fie, out upon't, this verse's foot is lame,

Let it go upright, or a mischief take it:

Yet it runs ill, the cadence crabbed is;

Away with it for shame; it mars the rest :

Give it sweet accent; fie, fie, yet I miss :

Store makes me scarce, I know not which is best. Here is a bodge; bot's on't; Farewell my pen; My Muse is dull'd; another time shall serve; To-morrow, she perhaps, shall to it again; And yet to-morrow she perhaps may swerve.

His Christoloros, printed 1598.

Well yet at last the Poem being penn'd,

The Printer it presents to Reader's view,
Some foul-mouth'd Readers then, which God amend,
So slop them up, that it would make one spew
To see how rudely they devour at once

More wit than e'er their head-piece held perchance;

As if my wit were minced for the nonce,

For them with ease to swallow with a vengeance.

Yet prithee, Reader, be not so unkind,

Though I am bold with thee, to eat me too: I beg, being thy poor Cook, but thy best wind: If thou wilt not do this, thou'lt little do:

But if I shall not be beholden to thee,

A rough rhyme choak thee; eat, and much good do thee.

XXI.

To mine ingenious and learnedly gamesome friend, Mr. John Owen, the short and sweet Epigrammatist.

Lend me thine hand; thine head I would have said,
For my hand's firmer, though thy head's more staid,
To add some merry measures unto mine;
Then shall my book be prais'd at least for thine.
Thou in the tongue that scholars most approve,
About wit's centre dost so sweetly move;

Thine orbs of art, that wits, which them observe,
Make them for pleasure and for profit serve.

Pleasur'd by wit, and profited by skill,

So thine Art's heaven revolves thy glory still.

XXII.

To the right worthily beloved Sir John Davies,* Knight, Attorney General of Ireland.

Good sir, your nature so affects my name,

That both your name and nature are mine own;
And in their love to both affect your fame,
Yet having not like fortunes, live unknown.
And, load-stone-like, did not your nature draw
Mine to the point, which yours did once project,
These hard rhymes to digest, as rude as raw,

No cause should ere have brought to this effect.
But yet to imitate our friends in ill,

Is much more ill, and too unkind accord.
Of ill you wrote too well, and so I will,
If so I can, to make ill more abhorr❜d.
Then if you like these purgings of my brain,
I'll ne'er believe that ought it yields is vain.

XXIII.

To my much honoured Lord, worthy of all honourable Titles, for courage, wit, and learning, William Earl of Pembroke.

Learn'd and judicious Lord, if I should balk
Thine honour'd name, it being in my way,
My Muse unworthy were of such a walk,

Where Honour's branches make it ever May.
O could my might with May proportion hold,
My May should be so glorious in effect,
That it should work what might and glory could,
Wherewith thy glory's style should still be deckt.
But tho' I may, I cannot, wanting might,
Which makes my May to work as cold as bare,

* Author of Nosce Teipsum, &c.