The Defenfe of Poely.

sdgoon of god 50 mo

So that fince the ever praife-worthy Poefy is full of vertue, breeding delightfulness, and void of no gift that ought to be in the noble name of learning; fince the blames laid against it are either falfe or feeble, fince the caufe why it is not esteemed in England, is the fault of poet-apes, not Poets Since laftly, our tongue is most fit to honour Poefy, and to be honoured by Poefy conjure you all that have had the evil luck to read this ink-wafting toy of mine, even in the name of the nine Muses, no more to fcorn the facred mysteries of Poefy no more to laugh at the name of Poets, as though they were nextɔinher ritors to fools; pomore to jeft at the reverend title of a rhymer, but to believe, with Ariftotle, That they were the ancient treasures of the Grecians divinity; To believe, with Bembus, That they were first bringers in of all civility; To believe, with Scaliger, That no Philofopher's precepts can fooner make you an honeft man, than the reading of Virgil; To believe, with Clauferus, the tranflator of Cornutus, That it pleased the heavenly Deity by Hefiod and Homer, under the veil of fables, to give us all knowledge, Logick, Rhetorick, Philofophy Natural and Moral, and Quid non? To believe, with me, That there are many myfteries contained in Poetry, which of purpose were written darkly, left by profane wits it fhould be abufed: To believe, with Landin, That they are fo beloved of the gods, that whatfoever they write, proceeds of a divine fury. Laftly, To believe themfelves, when they tell you, They will make you immortal by their verfes.

Thus doing, your names fhall flourish in the printers fhops: Thus doing, you fhall be of kin to many a poetical preface: Thus doing, you fhall be moft fair, most rich, most wife, most all; You fhall dwell upon fuperlatives: Thus doing, though you be Libertino patre natus, you shall suddenly grow Herculea proles:

Si quid mea Carmina poffunt.

Thus doing, your foul fhall be placed with Dante's Beatrix, or Virgil's Anchifes.

But if (fie of fuch a But!) you be born fo near the dull-making Cataract of Nilus, that you cannot hear the planet-like mufick of Poetry; if you have fo earthcreeping a mind, that it cannot lift it felf up to look to the sky of Poetry, or rather, by a certain ruftical dif. dain, will become fuch a Mome, as to be a Momus of Poetry: Then, though I will not wifh unto you the afs's ears of Midas, nor to be driven by a Poet's verfes, as Bubonax was, to hang himself, not to be rhymed to death, as is faid to be done in Ireland; yet thus much curfe I muft lend you in the behalf of all Poets, That while you live, you live in love, and ever get favour, for lacking skill of a fonnet; and when you die, your memory die from the earth for want of an epitaph.

ASTROPHEL

AND

STELL A*

OVING in truth, and fain in verfe my

love to fhow,

That fhe, dear fhe! might take fome

pleafure of my pain:

Pleasure might caufe her read, reading. might make her know,

Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain: I fought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain: Oft turning others leaves, to fee if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful thowers upon my fun-burn'd

brain.

* This Piece is reputed to have been written in compliment to the Lady RICH, who is fhadowed under the name of PHILOCLEA in the ARCADIA. It was firft printed in Quarto, 1591. In it the Excellency of Sweet Poely is con cluded. See WOOD's Athen. Oxon. p. 228.

Bat words came halting forth wanting invention's flay,
Invention, nature's child, fled step-dame ftudy's blows?
And others feet ftill feem'd but ftrangers in my way,
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my
throws,

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
Fool! faid my mufe to me, look in thy heart, and write,

II.

Not at first fight, nor with a dribbed fhot, Love gave the wound, which, while I breathe, will bleed; But known worth did in mine of time proceed,

Till, by degrees, it had full conqueft got

I faw, and Tik'd; I lik'd, but loved not;

I lov'd, but ftraight did not what love decreed:
At length, to love's decrees, I, forc'd, agreed,
Yer, with repining
át fo partial lot. ITO

Now, ev'n, that foot-step of loft liberty
Is gone, and now, like flave-born Muscovit
I call it praife to fuffer tyranny;

And now employ the remnant of my wit,

To make my felf believe, that all is well, and a ve ví myself While, with a feeling skill, I paint my hell.

toptlas of aliw el

woft b'cow sonads i i

L'aud-mil yin nogu zlavić.

Let dainty wits cry on the fifters nine,

That, bravely mask'd, their fancies may be told:
Or, Pindar's apes, flaunt they in phrases fine,
Enamling, with py'd flowers, their thoughts of gold.

I

Or elfe, let them in ftatelier glory fine,
Ennobling new found tropes, with problems old:
Or, with ftrange fimiles, inrich each line,
Of herbs, or beafts, which Ind or Africk hold."

For me, in footh, no mufe but one I know,
Phrases and problems from my reach do grow,
And strange things coft too dear for my poor fprits,

How then? even thus, In Stella's face I read,

What love and beauty be, then all my deed
But copying is, what in her Nature writes.

IV.

Virtue, alas! now let me take fome rest, Thou fett'st a bait betwixt my will and wit,

A

If vain love have my fimple foul opprefs'd, 01:0

Leave what thou likeft not, deal not thou with it."
Thy fcepter ufe in fome old Cato's breaft;

Churches, or Schools, are for thy feat more fit: ""

I do confefs, pardon a fault confess'd,

My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit.

But, if that needs thou wilt ufurping be,
The little reason that is left in me,

And ftill th' effect of thy perfuafions prove,

I swear, my heart fuch one thall fhew to thee,

0

et eT That shrines in flesh so true a deity, moj anti siluw That, Virtue, thou thy felf fhalt be in love.

It is most true, that eyes are form'd tolderves W The inward light; and, that the heav'nly part ! Ought to be king, from whofe rules who do fwerve, Rebels to Nature, ftrive for their own smart,