Glorice lata Via.

Though life be short, and man doth, as the sun,

His journey finish in a little space, The way

is wide an honest course to run, And great the glories of a virtuous race, That, at the last, do our just labours crown With three-fold wreath, love, honour, and renown.

Nor can night's shadow, or the Stygian deep,

Conceal fair Virtue from the world's wide eye; The more oppress'd, the more she strives to peep,

And raise her rose-bound golden head on high: When epicures, the wretch, and worldly slave, Shall rot in shame, alive and in the grave.

Nec in una sede morantur.

The awful sceptre, though it can compel

By powerful might great'st monarchs to obey, Love where he listeth liketh best to dwell, And take abroad his fortune as he

may: Ne might, or gold, can win him thence away, Whereto he is through strong affection led, Be it a palace, or the simplest shed.

But, Venus' infant! dread of all beneath!

Imperious fear from my sweet saint remove, And with thy soft ambrosial kisses breathe

Into her bosom meek and mildest love

With melting pity from thy queen above: That she may read, and oft remember this, And learn to love, who most beloved is.

Ad generosissimum et opt. spei juvenem Nobilem

D. C. M. in Italiam nuperrime profectum.

The Spartan virgins, ere they had compos'd

Their garlands of the fairest flowers to sight, The wholesom’st herbs they herewithal inclos’d,

And so their heads full jollily they dight, In memory of that same leach, they write, Who first brought simples, and their use to light.

So ye, brave lord, who like the heavenly sphere

Delight in motion, and about to roam, Must learn to mix in travel far and near

With pleasure profit, that, returning home, Your skill and judgment more may make you

known Than your French suit, or lock so largely grown.

For who's he, that's not ravish'd with delight

Far countries, courts, and cities strange to see? To have old Rome presented to his sight,

Troy walls, or Virgil's sweet Parthenope? Yet nothing worth, unless ye herewith find The fruits of skill, and bettering of your mind.

Rura mihi et Silentium.

[From 11 stanzas.] WERT thou thy life at liberty to choose,

And, as thy birth, so, hadst thy being free, The city thou should'st bid adieu, my Muse,

And from her streets, as her infection flee;

Where chaos and confusion we see
As well of language as of differing hearts,
A body sever'd in a thousand parts.

Thy solitary Academe should be

Some shady grove upon the Thames' fair side; Such as we may near princely Richmond see,

Or where along doth silver Severn slide,

Or Avon courts fair Flora in her pride. There shouldst thou sit at long-desired rest, And think thyself above a monarch blest.

There might'st thou sing thy sweet Creator's praise,

And turn at quiet o’er some holy book,

Or tune the accent of thy harmless lays

Unto the murmur of the gentle brook,

Whiles round about thy greedy eye doth look, Observing wonders in some flower by, This bent, that leaf, this worm, that butterfly.

Or, wouldst thou music to delight thine ear,

Step but aside unto the neighbour spring, Thou shalt a thousand wing'd musicians hear,

Each praising in his kind the heavenly king.

Here Philomel doth her shrill treble sing; The trush a tenor ; off a little space, Some mateless dove doth murmur out the base.

Nor princes' richest arras may compare
With some small spot where Nature's skill is

shown,
Perfuming sweetly all the neighbour air,

While thousand colours in a night are blown:

Here's a light crimson, there a deeper one, A maiden's blush, here purples, there a white, Then all commingled for our more delight.

Withal, as in some rare limn'd book, we find

Here painted lectures of God's sacred will: The daisy teacheth lowliness of mind,

The camomile, we should be patient still,

The rue, our hate of vice's poison ill, The woodbine, that we should our friendship

hold, Our hope

the
savory

in the bitterest cold.

Yet, love the city, as the kindly nurse

Of all good arts, and fair civility; Where, though with good be intermixt the worse,

That most disturb our sweet tranquillity,

Content thyself, till thine ability
And better hap shall answer thy desire.
But, Muse, beware, lest we too high aspire.

The Author's Conclusion.

[From 23 stanzas.] As then the sky was calm and fair,

The winds did cease, and clouds were fled,
Aurora scatter'd Phoebus' hair,
New risen from her

bed :
At whose approach the harlot strew