Daniel.
Davies and Wither.
Who spake as much as e'er our tongue can say.
Then in a strain beyond an oaten quill The learned shepherd of fair Hitching Hill Sung the heroic deeds of Greece and Troy, In lines so worthy life, that I employ My reed in vain to overtake his fame. All praiseful tongues do wait upon that name. Our second Ovid, the most pleasing Muse That heaven did e'er in mortal's brain infuse, All-loved Drayton, in soul-raping strains, A genuine note, of all the nymphish trains Began to tune; on it all ears were hung As sometime Dido's on Æneas' tongue.
Jonson, whose full of merit to rehearse Too copious is to be confined in verse; Yet therein only fittest to be known, Could any write a line which he might own. One, so judicious; so well-knowing; and A man whose least worth is to understand; One so exact in all he doth prefer
To able censure; for the theatre
Not Seneca transcends his worth of praise; Who writes him well shall well deserve the bay: Well-languaged Daniel . . . .
Davies and Wither, by whose Muses' power A natural day to me seems but an hour, And could I ever hear their learned lays, Ages would turn to artificial days.
DRIVE forth thy flock, young pastor, to that plain, Where our old shepherds wont their flocks to feed; To those clear walks, where many a skilful swain, Towards the calm evening, tuned his pleasant reed. Those, to the Muses once so sacred, downs,
As no rude foot might there presume to stand: (Now made the way of the unworthiest clowns, Digg'd and plough'd up with each unhallow'd hand,)
If possible thou canst, redeem those places, Where, by the brim of many a silver spring, The learned Maidens and delightful Graces Often have sate to hear our shepherds sing: Where on those pines the neighbouring groves among
(Now utterly neglected in these days),
Our garlands, pipes, and cornamutes were hung, The monuments of our deservèd praise.
So may thy sheep like, so thy lambs increase, And from the wolf feed ever safe and free! So mayst thou thrive, among the learned press, As thou, young shepherd, art beloved of me!
[p. 1627 To My most dearly-loved friend, Henry Reynolds, Esquire, of Poets and Poesie.
My dearly-lovèd friend, how oft have we In winter evenings (meaning to be free)
To some well-chosen place used to retire,
And there with moderate meat and wine and fire Have pass'd the hours contentedly with chat; Now talk't of this, and then discoursed of that; Spoke our own verses 'twixt ourselves, if not, Other men's lines which we by chance had got, Or some stage pieces famous long before Of which your happy memory had store; And I remember you much pleased were Of those who lived long ago to hear,
As well as of those of these latter times Who have enrich'd our language with their rimes, And in succession how still up they grew; Which is the subject that I now pursue. For from my cradle you must know that I Was still inclined to noble poesie ; And when that once Pueriles I had read, And newly had my Cato construèd, In my small self I greatly marvell'd then Amongst all others what strange kind of men These poets were; and pleased with the name To my mild tutor merrily I came,
(For I was then a proper goodly page,
Much like a pigmy, scarce ten years of age,) Clasping my slender arms about his thigh; "O my dear master, cannot you" (quoth I) Make me a poet? do it, if you can,
And you shall see I'll quickly be a man." Who me thus answer'd smiling: "Boy," quoth
"If you'll not play the wag, but I may see You ply your learning, I will shortly read Some poets to you." Phoebus be my speed! To't hard went I, when shortly he began,
And first read to me honest Mantuan, Then Virgil's Eglogues. Being enter'd thus, Methought I straight had mounted Pegasus, And in his full career could make him stop And bound upon Parnassus' bi-clift top. I scorn'd your ballad then, though it were done And had for finis William Elderton.
But soft; in sporting with this childish jest, I from my subject have too long digrest; Then to the matter that we took in hand- Jove and Apollo for the Muses stand!
That noble Chaucer in those former times The first enrich'd our English with his rimes, And was the first of ours that ever brake Into the Muses' treasure, and first spake In weighty numbers, delving in the mine Of perfect knowledge, which he could refine And coin for current; and as much as then The English language could express to men, He made it do, and by his wondrous skill Gave us much light from his abundant quill. And honest Gower, who, in respect of him, Had only sipt at Aganippa's brim,
And though in years this last was him before, Yet fell he far short of the other's store. When after those, four ages very near, They with the Muses which conversed, were That princely Surrey, early in the time Of the Eight Henry, who was then the prime Of England's noble youth: with him there came Wyat, with reverence whom we still do name Amongst our poets: Brian had a share With the two former, which accompted are
Gascoigne and Churchyard.
That time's best makers, and the authors were Of those small poems which the title bear Of songs and sonnets, wherein oft they hit On many dainty passages of wit.
Gascoigne and Churchyard after them again, In the beginning of Eliza's reign,
Accompted were great meterers many a day, But not inspired with brave fire: had they Lived but a little longer, they had seen Their works before them to have buried been. Grave moral Spenser after these came on, Than whom I am persuaded there was none, Since the blind bard his Iliads up did make, Fitter a task like that to undertake; To set down boldly, bravely to invent, In all high knowledge surely excellent.
The noble Sidney with this last arose, That heroë for numbers and for prose; That throughly paced our language as to show The plenteous English hand in hand might go With Greek and Latin; and did first reduce Our tongue from Lilly's writing then in use, Talking of stones, stars, plants, of fishes, flies, Playing with words and idle similies;
As the English apes and very zanies be Of everything that they do hear and see, So imitating his ridiculous tricks
They spake and writ all like mere lunatics.
Then Warner, though his lines were not so trimm'd,
Nor yet his poem so exactly limb'd
And neatly jointed but the critic may
Easily reprove him, yet thus let me say
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