University of Virginia Library

[Commendatory Verses.]

To the most ingenious Author Mr. W. Browne.

Ingenious Swaine! that highly dost adorne
Clear Tauy! on whose brinck we both were borne!
Iust Praise in me would ne're be thought to moue
From thy sole Worth, but from my partiall Loue.
Wherefore I will not doe thee so much wrong,
As by such mixture to allay thy Song.
But while kinde strangers rightly praise each Grace
Of thy chaste Muse; I (from the happy Place
That brought thee forth, and thinkes it not vnfit
To boast now that it earst bred such a Wit;)
Would onely haue it knowne I much reioyce;
To heare such Matters, sung by such a Voyce.

To his Friend Mr. Browne.

All that doe reade thy Workes, and see thy face,
(Where scarce a haire growes vp, thy chin to grace)
Doe greatly wonder how so youthfull yeares
Could frame a Work, where so much worth appears.
To heare how thou describ'st a Tree, a Dale,
A Groue, a Greene, a solitary Vale,
The Euening Showers, and the Morning Gleames,
The golden Mountaines, and the siluer Streames,
How smooth thy Verse is, and how sweet thy Rimes,
How sage, and yet how pleasant are thy Lines;
What more or lesse can there be said by men,
But, Muses rule thy Hand, and guide thy Pen.

To his worthily-affected Friend Mr. VV. Browne.

Another to the same.

Were all mens enuies fixt in one mans lookes,
That monster that would prey on safest Fame,
Darst not once checke at thine, nor at thy Name:
Se he who men can reade as well as Bookes
Attest thy Lines; thus tride, they show to vs
As Scæua's Shield, thy Selfe Emeritus.

[To my Browne, yet brightest Swaine]

To my noble Friend the Author.

To the Author.

To his worthy Friend Mr. W. Browne, on his Booke.

That Poets are not bred so, but so borne,
Thy Muse it proues; for in her ages morne
She hath stroke enuy dumbe, and charm'd the loue
Of eu'ry Muse whose birth the Skies approue.
Goe on; I know thou art too good to feare.
And may thy earely straines affect the eare
Of that rare Lord, who iudge and guerdon can
The richer gifts which doe aduantage man!

To his Friend the Authour.

Sometimes (deare friend) I make thy Booke my meat,
And then I iudge 'tis Hony that I eat.
Sometimes my drinke it is, and then I thinke
It is Apollo's Nectar, and no drinke.
And being hurt in minde, I keepe in store
Thy Booke, a precious Balsame for the sore.
'Tis Hony, Nectar, Balsame most diuine:
Or one word for them all; my Friend, 'tis thine.

To his Friend the Author.

If antique Swaines wanne such immortall praise,
Though they alone with their melodious Layes,
Did onely charme the Woods and flowry Lawnes:
Satyres, and Floods, and Stones, and hairy Fawnes:
How much braue Youth to thy due worth belongs,
That charm'st not thē but men with thy sweet Songs?

To the Authour.

Tis knowne I scorne to flatter (or commend)
What merits not applause though in my Friend:
Which by my censure should now more appeare,
Were this not full as good as thou art deare:
But since thou couldst not (erring) make it so,
That I might my impartiall humour show
By finding fault; Nor one of these friends tell
How to shew loue so ill, that I as well
Might paint out mine: I feele an enuious touch,
And tell thee Swaine: that at thy fame I grutch,
Wishing the Art that makes this Poeme shine,
And this thy Worke (wert not thou wronged) mine.
For when Detraction shal forgotten be,
This will continue to eternize thee;
And if hereafter any busie wit
Should, wronging thy conceit, miscensure it,
Though seeming learn'd or wise: here he shall see,
Tis prais'd by wiser and more learn'd then hee.

To Mr. Browne.

Were there a thought so strange as to deny
That happy Bayes doe some mens Births adorne,
Thy worke alone might serue to iustifie,
That Poets are not made so, but so borne.
How could thy plumes thus soone haue soar'd thus hie
Hadst thou not Lawrell in thy Cradle worne?
Thy Birth o'er tooke thy Youth: And it doth make
Thy youth (herein) thine elders ouer-take.

To my truly-belou'd Friend M. Browne, on his Pastorals.

Some men, of Bookes or Friends not speaking right,
May hurt them more with praise, then Foes with spight.
But I haue seene thy Worke, and I know thee:
And, if thou list thy selfe, what thou canst bee.
For, though but early in these paths thou tread,
I finde thee write most worthy to be read.
It must be thine owne iudgement, yet that sends
This thy worke forth: that iudgement mine commends.
And, where the most reade bookes, on Authors fames,
Or, like our Money-brokers, take vp names
On credit, and are couzen'd; see, that thou
By offring not more sureties, then enow,
Hold thine owne worth vnbroke: which is so good
Vpon th' Exchange of Letters, as I wou'd
More of our Writers would like thee, not swell
With the how much they set forth, but th' how well.