On the Author of Britannias Peerlesse Pastoralls.
Cease skilfull Orpheus, whose mellifluous straynes
Have earst made stones and trees skip ore the playnes,
A sweeter harmonye invites our eares
Than ere was sent from the celestiall spheeres:
Cleare Tavy now his silver head may rayse,
A shephearde of his owne can singe his prayse.
Sweet toung'd Arion strive not with such odds,
Thy song moved but the dolphins: his the godds.
O hadst thou daignd to move thy sweeter toung,
The wolfe had stayd to hearken to thy songe;
Had Pans eares suckt the nectar of thy breath,
For thy sake Cælia had beene free from death,
But that the Fates denyde, as who should say
By Willys pen her fame shall live for aye:
Walla a garland will compose noe more,
To crowne her Tavyes temples as before;
But as to them that best deserve the prayse,
She'll give to thee the garland and the bayes,
And if a verse thy glorye may confine,
Thou sing'st Brittannias prayse, Brittannia thine.
Jo. Dynham, e Coll. Exon.
