Chapman.

Drayton.

Jonson.

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

he,

"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

Chaucer.

Gower.

Surrey.

Wyatt.

Brian.

Gascoigne and Churchyard.

Spenser.

Sidney.

Lilly.

Warner.

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