To the Avthor.
Had
I beheld thy Muse vpon the Stage,
A Poesie in fashion with this age;
Or had I seene, when first I view'd thy taske,
An actiue wit dance in a Satyres Maske,
I should in those haue prais'd thy Wit and Art,
But not thy ground, A Poems better part:
Which being the perfect'st Image of the Braine,
Not fram'd to any base end, but to gaine
True approbation of the Artists worth,
When to an open view he sets it forth,
Iudiciously, he striues; no lesse t'adorne
By a choise Subiect, then a curious Forme:
Well hast thou then past o'er all other rhime,
And in a Pastorall spent thy leasures time:
Where fruit so faire, and field so fruitfull is,
That hard it is to iudge whether in This
The Substance or the fashion more excell,
So precious is the Iem, and wrought so well.
Thus rest thou prais'd of me, Fruit, Field, Iem, Art,
Doe claime much praise to equall such Desart.
W. Ferrar, è So. Med. Templ.
