 | To my Noble Friend, Sir T. H. Knight |  |
To my Noble Friend, Sir T. H. Knight.
An Ode in pure Iämbick feet.
I knew before thy dainty tuch,
Vpon the Lordly Violl:
But of thy Lyre who knew so much
Before this happy triall?
So tuned is thy sacred Harpe,
To make her eccho sweetly sharpe.
Vpon the Lordly Violl:
But of thy Lyre who knew so much
Before this happy triall?
So tuned is thy sacred Harpe,
To make her eccho sweetly sharpe.
I wote not how to praise inough
Thy Musick and thy Muses:
Thy Glosse so smooth, the Text so tough,
Be Iudge, who both peruses.
Thy choice of Odes is also chaste,
No want it hath, it hath no waste.
Thy Musick and thy Muses:
Thy Glosse so smooth, the Text so tough,
Be Iudge, who both peruses.
Thy choice of Odes is also chaste,
No want it hath, it hath no waste.
A grace it is for any Knight,
A stately Steed to stable:
But vnto Pegasus the light
Is any comparable?
No Courser of so comly Course,
Was euer as the winged Horse.
A stately Steed to stable:
But vnto Pegasus the light
Is any comparable?
No Courser of so comly Course,
Was euer as the winged Horse.
That Astrophill, of Arts the life,
A Knight was, and a Poët:
So was the Man, who tooke to wife
The Daughter of La-Roët.
So Thou that hast reseru'd a parte,
To rouze my Iohnson, and his Arte.
A Knight was, and a Poët:
So was the Man, who tooke to wife
The Daughter of La-Roët.
So Thou that hast reseru'd a parte,
To rouze my Iohnson, and his Arte.
Receiue the while my lowly Verse
to waite vpon thy Muses:
Who cannot halfe thy worth reherse,
My braine that height refuses.
Beneath thy Meede is all my praise;
That, asks a Crowne of holy Baies.
to waite vpon thy Muses:
Who cannot halfe thy worth reherse,
My braine that height refuses.
Beneath thy Meede is all my praise;
That, asks a Crowne of holy Baies.
Hugh Holland.
| To my Noble Friend, Sir T. H. Knight | |