University of Virginia Library

The Authours description of a Poet and Poesie, with an Apology in defence of Naturall English Poetry.

Shall beggers diue into the Acts of Kings?
Shall Nature speake of supernat'rall things,
Shall Eagles flights attempted be by Gnats?
Shall mighty Whales be portraied out by Sprats?
These things I know vnpossible to be,
And it is as vnpossible for mee,
That am a begger in these Kingly acts,
Which from the heau'ns true Poetrie extracts.
A supernat'rall foole by Nature I
That neuer knew this high-borne mystery,
A worthlesse gnat, I know my selfe more weake,
Yet of the Princely Eagle dare to speake:
A silly sprat the Ocean seekes to sound,
To seek this Whale, though seeking he be drown'd:
Then to proceed: a Poets Art, I know,
Is not compact of earthly things below:
Nor is of any base substantiall mettle,
That in the worlds rotundity doth settle:
But tis immortall, and it hath proceeding,
From whēce diuinest soules haue all their breeding.
It is a blessing heau'n hath sent to men,
By men it is diuulged with their pen:
And by that propagation it is knowne,
And ouer all the world disperst and throwne:
In verball elocution so refinde,
That it to Vertue animates mans minde:
The blessed Singer of blest Israel,
In this rare Arte, he rarely did excell,
He sweetly Poetiz'd in heau'nly verses,
Such lines which aye eternity rehearses:
What Reuerend rare, and glorious great esteeme
Augustus Cæsar did a Poet deeme.
Admired Virgils life doth plainely show,
That all the world a Poets worth may know:
But leauing Israels King, and Romane Cæsar,
Let's seeke in England English Poets treasure,
Sir Philip Sidney, his times Mars and Muse,
That word and sword, so worthily could vse,
That spight of death, his glory liu's, alwaies
For Conquests, and for Poesie crown'd with bayes:
What famous men liue in this age of ours,
As if the Sisters nine had left their bowres,
With more post haste then expeditious wings
They heere haue found the Heliconian springs.
We of our mighty Monarch Iames may boast,
Who in this heau'nly Arte exceeds the most:
Where men may see the Muses wisdome well:
When such a glorious house they chose to dwell.
The Preacher whose instructions, doe afford
The soules deare food, the euerliuing Word:
If Poets skill be banisht from his braine,
His preaching (sometimes) will be but too plaine:
Twixt Poetry and best diuinity
There is such neere and deare affinity,
As 'twere propinquity of brothers blood,
That without tone, the other's not so good:
The man that takes in hand braue verse to write,
And in Diuinitie hath no insight,
He may perhaps make smooth, and Art-like Rimes,
To please the humours of these idle times:
But name of Poet hee shall neuer merit,
Though writing them, he waste his very spirit:
They therefore much mistake that seeme to say,
How euery one that writes a paltrie play:
A sottish Sonnet in the praise of loue,
A song or jigge, that fooles to laughter moue,
In praise or dispraise, in defame or fame,
Deserues the honour of a Poets name:
I further say, and further will maintaine,
That he that hath true Poesie in his braine,
Will not profane so high and heau'nly skill,
To glory or be proud of writing ill:
But if his Muse doe stoope to such deiection,
Tis but to shew the world her sinnes infection:
A Poets ire sometimes may be inflam'd:
To make foule Vices brazen face asham'd.
And then his Epigrams and Satyres whip,
Will make base gald vnruly Iades to skip:
In frost they say 'tis good, bad blood be nipt,
And I haue seene Abuses whipt and stript
In such rare fashion, that the wincing age,
Hath kick'd and flung, with vncontrouled rage.
Oh worthy Withers, I shall loue thee euer,
And often maist thou doe thy best indeuer,
That still thy workes and thee may liue together,
Contending with thy name and neuer wither.
But further to proceed in my pretence
Of natr'all English Poetries defence:
For Lawreat Sidney, and our gracious Iames,
Haue plunged been in Arts admired streames:
And all the learned Poets of our dayes,
Haue Arts great ayde to winne still liuing Bayes:
All whom I doe confesse such worthy men,
That I vnworthy am with inke and pen
To carry after them But since my haps
Haue been so happy as to get some scraps,
By Nature giu'n me from the Muses table,
I'le put them to the best vse I am able:
I haue read Tasso, Virgill, Homer, Ouid,
Iosephus, Plutark, whence I haue approued,
And found such obseruations as are fit,
With plenitude to fraught a barren wit.
And let a man of any nation be,
These Authors reading, makes his iudgement see
Some rules that may his ignorance refine,
And such predominance it hath with mine.
No bladder-blowne ambition puff's my Muse,
An English Poets writings to excuse:
Nor that I any rule of art condem,
Which is Dame Natures ornamentall Iem:
But these poore lines I wrote (my wits best pelfe)
Defending that which can defend it selfe.
Know then vnnat'ral English Mungril Monster,
Thy wandring iudgemēt doth too much misconster:
When thou affirm'st thy Natiue Country-man,
To make true verse no art or knowledge can:
Cease, cease to do this glorious Kingdome wrong,
To make her speech inferiour to each tongue:
Shew not thy selfe more brutish then a beast,
Base is that bird that files her homeborne neast.
In what strange tongue did Virgils Muse commerce?
What language wast that Ouid wrote his verse?
Thou sayst 't was Latin: why I say so too,
In no tongue else they any thing could doo:
They Naturally did learne it from their mother,
And must speake Latin, that could speake no other:
The Grecian blinded Bard did much compile,
And neuer vsde no foreigne far-fetcht stile:
But as hee was a Greeke, his verse was Greeke,
In other tongues (alas) he was to seeke.
Du Bartas heauenly all admired Muse,
No vnknowne Language euer vs'de to vse:
But as he was a Frenchman, so his lines
In natiue French with fame most glorious shines,
And in the English tongue tis fitly stated,
By siluer-tongued Siluester translated.
So well, so wisely, and so rarely done,
That he by it immortall fame hath wonne.
Then as great Maro, and renowned Naso,
Braue Homer, Petrarke, sweet Italian Tasso:
And numbers more, past numbring to be numberd,
Whose rare inuentions neuer were incumberd,
With our outlandish chip chop gibrish gabbling:
To fill mens cares with vnacquainted babbling:
Why may not then an English man, I pray;
In his owne language write as erst did they?
Yet must we suit our phrases to their shapes,
And in their imitations be their Apes.
Whilst Muses haunt the fruitfull forked hill,
The world shall reuerence their vnmatched skill.
And for inuention, fiction, methood, measure,
From them must Poets seeke to seeke that treasure.
But yet I think a man may vse that tongue
His Country vses, and doe them no wrong.
Then I whose Artlesse studies are but weake,
Who neuer could, nor will but English speake,
Do heere maintaine, if words be rightly plac'd,
A Poets skill, with no tongue more is grac'd.
It runnes so smooth, so sweetly it doth flow,
From it such heauenly harmony doth grow,
That it the vnderstanders sences moues
With admiration, to expresse their loues.
No musicke vnder heauen is more diuine,
Then is a well-writ, and a well-read line.
But when a witlesse selfe-conceited Rooke,
A good inuention dares to ouerlooke:
How pitteous then mans best of wit is martyr'd,
In barbrous manner totter'd, torne and quarter'd,
So mingle mangled, and so hack't and hewd,
So scuruily beseuruide and bemewde?
Then this detracting durty dunghill Drudge,
Although he vnderstand not, yet will iudge.
Thus famous Poesie must abide the doome
Of euery muddy-minded raskall Groome.
Thus rarest Artists are continuall stung
By euery prating, stinking lumpe of dung.
For what cause then should I so much repine,
When best of writers that ere wrote a line,
Are subiect to the censure of the worst,
Who will their follies vent, or else they burst?
I haue at idle times some Pamphlets writ,
(The fruitlesse issue of a nat'rall wit)
And cause I am no Scholler, some enuy me,
With foule and false calumnious words belie me:
With brazen fronts, and flinty hard beleefe,
Affirming or suspecting me a theefe:
And that my sterrile Muse so dry is milch'd,
That what I write, is borrow'd, beg'd, or filch'd.
Because my name is Taylor, they suppose
My best inuentions all from stealing growes:
As though there were no difference to be made
Betwixt the name of Taylor, and the Trade.
Of all strange weapons, I haue least of skill
To mannage or to wield a Taylors bill.
I cannot Item it for silke and facing,
For cutting, edging, stiffning, and for lacing:
For bumbast, stitching, binding and for buckram,
For cotton, bayes, for canuas and for lockram.
All these I know, but know not how to vse them,
Let trading Taylors therefore still abuse them,
My skil's as good to write, to sweate, or row,
As any Taylors is to stea e or sow.
In end my pulsiue braine no Art affoords,
To mint or stamp, or forge new coyned words.
But all my tongue can speake or pen can write,
VVas spoke and writ, before I could indite,
Yet let me be of my best hopes bereft,
If what I euer writ, I got by theft:
Or by base symony, or bribes, or gifts,
Or beg'd, or borrowd it by sharking shifts,
I know, I neuer any thing haue done,
But what may from a weake inuention runne.
Giue me the man whose wit will vndertake
A substance of a shaddow for to make:
Of nothing something, (with Arts greatest aide)
With Nature onely all his Muse arraide,
That solid matter from his braine can squeez,
Whilst some lame Artists wits are drawn to'th leez.
By teaching Parrots prate and prattle can,
And taught an Ape will imitate a man:
And Banks his hors shew'd tricks, taught with much labor,
So did the hare that plaid vpon the tabor.
Shall man, I pray, so witlesse be besotted?
Shall men (like beasts) no wisdome be allotted?
(Without great studie) with instinct of Nature,
Why then were man the worst and basest creature?
But men are made the other creatures Kings,
Because superiour wisdome from them springs:
And therefore Momus, vnto thee againe,
That dost suspect, the issues of my braine,
Are but my bastards, now my Muse doth flie,
And in thy throat giues thy suspect the lie.
And to the triall dares thee when thou dar'st,
Accounting thee a coward, if thou spar'st.
I haue a little wit, and braine, and spleene,
And gall and memorie, and mirth and teene,
And passions, and affections of the minde,
As other Mortals vse to be enclinde.
And hauing all this, wherefore should men doubt,
My wit should be so crippled with the Gowt,
That it must haue assistance to compile,
Like a lame dog, that's limping or a stile?
No, no, thou Zoylus, thou detracting else,
Though thou art insufficient in thy selfe,
And hast thy wit and studies in reuersion,
Cast not on me that scandalous aspersion.
I hate such ballad-mongring riming slaues,
Such iygging rascals, such audacious knaues,
The bane of learning, the abuse of Arts,
The scumme of Natures worst defectiue parts:
The scorne of schollers, poison of rewards,
Regardlesse vassalls of true worths regards,
The shame of time, the canker of deserts,
The dearth of liberall and heroicke hearts,
That like so many bandogs snarle and snatch,
And all's their owne they can from others catch:
That licke the scraps of Schollers wits (like dogs)
(A Prouerbe old) draffs good enough for hogs.
Purloyning line by line, and peece by peece,
And from each place they read, will filch a fleece.
Me thinks my Muse should piecemeale teare these rogues
More base & vile thē tatter'd Irish brogues.
Clawkissing raskals, flattering parasites,
Sworne vices vassalls, vertues opposites.
Tis you dambde curs haue murderd liberall minds,
And made best Poets worse esteem'd then hindes:
But wherefore doe I take a Schollers part,
That haue no ground or Axioms of Art,
That am in Poesie an artlesse creature,
That haue no learning but the booke of Nature;
No Academicall Poeticke straines,
But home-spun medley of my mottley braines?
The reason a Schollers wants bewaile,
And why against base litter'd whelps I raile,
Is this, that they long time should time bestow,
In painefull study, secret Arts to know,
And after liue in want, contempt and scorne,
By euery dung-hill peasant ouer-borne,
Abus'd, reiected, doggedly disgrac'd,
Despised, ragged, lowzie, and out-fac'd,
Whilst Bag-pipe-poets stuft with others wind,
Are grac'd for wit, they haue from them purloind.
Now in my owne defence once more I'l say,
Their too rash iudgements too much runne astray,
That, 'cause my name is Taylor, I doe theeue it,
I hope their wisdomes will no more beleeue it:
Nor let my want of learning be the cause,
I should be bitten with blacke enuies iawes:
For whose'r by nature is not a Poet,
By rules of Art he neuer well can show it.
Ther's many a wealthy heire long time at Schoole,
Doth spend much study, and comes home a foole.
A Poet needs must be a Poet borne,
Or else his Art procures his greater scorne,
For why? if Art alone made men excell,
Me thinks Tom Coriat should write ex'lent well:
But he was borne belike in some crosse yeere,
When learning was good cheap, but wit was deare.
Then to conclude, as I before began,
Though nought by Schollership or Art I can,
Yet (if my stocke by nature were more bare)
I scorne to vtter stolne or borrowed ware:
And therefore Reader, now I tell thee plaine,
If thou incredulous dost still remaine;
If yea or nay these reasons doe perswade thee,
I leaue thee and thy faith to him that made thee.