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There teaches rocks and prouder seas to plain
By Nesis fair, and fairer Mergiline:

While his thin net, upon his oars twined,

With wanton strife catches the sun and wind; Which still do slip away, and still remain behind.

And that French muse's eagle eye and wing

Hath soar'd to heaven, and there hath learn'd the art

To frame angelic strains, and canzons sing:

Too high and deep for every shallow heart.

Ah, blessed soul! in those celestial rays,

Which gave thee light, these lower works to blaze, Thou sit'st imparadised, and chant'st eternal lays.

Thrice happy wits, which in your springing May,

(Warm'd with the sun of well deserved favours) Disclose your buds, and your fair blooms display, Perfume the air with your rich fragrant savours! Nor may, nor ever shall, those honour'd flowers Be spoil'd by summer's heat, or winter's showers, But last, when eating Time shall gnaw the proudest towers.

Line 6th, And that French muse's-BARTAS.

Happy, thrice happy times in silver age !

When generous plants advanced their lofty crest; When Honour stoop'd to be learn'd Wisdom's page; When baser weeds starved in their frozen nest; When th' highest flying muse still highest climbs

And virtue's rise keeps down all rising crimes : Happy, thrice happy age! happy, thrice happy times!

But wretched we, to whom these iron days

(Hard days) afford nor matter, nor reward!

Sings Maro? Men deride high Maro's lays,

;

Their hearts with lead, with steel their sense is barr'd.

Sing Linus, or his father, as he uses,

Our Midas' ears their well tuned verse refuses. What cares an ass for arts? he brays at sacred muses.

But if fond Bavius vent his clouted song,

Or Mævius chant his thoughts in brothel charm; The witless vulgar, in a num'rous throng,

Like summer flies about their dunghill swarm:

They sneer, they grin.-Like to his like will move.
Yet never let them greater mischief prove

Than this, Who hates not one, may he the other love.

Witness our Colin; whom though all the graces,
And all the muses nursed; whose well taught song,
Parnassus' self, and Glorian embraces,

And all the learn'd, and all the shepherd's throng;

Yet all his hopes were cross'd, all suits denied;
Discouraged, scorn'd, his writings vilified:

Poorly, poor man, he lived: poorly, poor man, he died.

And had not that great Hart, (whose honour'd head,
Ah! lies full low) pity'd thy woeful plight;
There hadst thou lain unwept, unburied,

Unbless'd, nor graced with any common rite:

Yet shalt thou live when thy great foe shall sink:

Beneath his mountain tomb, whose fame shall stink: And Time his blacker name shall blurre with blackest ink.

O let th' Iambic muse revenge that wrong,

Which cannot slumber in thy sheets of lead:

Let thy abused honour cry as long

As there be quills to write, or eyes to read

Line 1st, Colin-SPENSER.

Line 8th, GREAT HART-The unfortunate Earl of Essex, who caused Spenser's obsequies to be performed at his own

expence.

On his rank name let thine own votes be turn'd,
that man that hath the muses scorn'd,

"Oh may
"Alive nor dead, be ever of a muse adorned !"

Oft therefore have I chid my tender muse;

Oft my chill breast beats off her fluttering wing:
Yet when new spring her gentle rays infuse,
All storms are laid, again to chirp and sing:

At length soft fires, dispersed in every vein,
Yield open passage to the thronging train,

And swelling numbers' tide rolls like the surging main,

So where fair Thames, and crooked Isis' son,
Pays tribute to his king, the mantling stream,
Encounter'd by the tides (now rushing on
With equal force) of's way doth doubtful seem;
At length the full grown sea, and water's king
Chide the bold waves with hollow murmuring:

Back fly the streams to shroud them in their mother spring.

Yet thou, sweet numerous muse, why should'st thou droop, That every vulgar ear thy music scorns ?

Nor can they rise, nor thou so low canst stoop;

No seed of heav'n takes root in mud or thorns.

When owls or crows, imping their flaggy wing

With thy stolen plumes, their notes through th' air fling; Oh shame! they howl and croak, whilst fond they strain to sing.

Enough for thee in heav'n to build thy nest;

(Far be dull thoughts of winning dunghill praise) Enough, if kings enthrone thee in their breast,

And crown their golden crowns with higher bays: Enough that those who wear the crown of kings, (Great Israel's princes) strike thy sweetest strings: Heaven's dove, when high'st he flies, flies with thy heav'nly wings.

Let others trust the seas, dare death and hell,

Search either Ind', vaunt of their scars and wounds: Let others their dear breath (nay, silence) sell

To fools, and (swoln, not rich) stretch out their bounds, By spoiling those that live, and wronging dead; That they may drink in pearl, and couch their head In soft, but sleepless down; in rich, but restless bed.

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