The Whole Works of William Browne of Tavistock ... Now first collected and edited, with a memoir of the poet, and notes, by W. Carew Hazlitt, of the Inner Temple |
 | 1, 2. |
|
| 1. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 2. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 3. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| 1. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
|
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. | X. Commendatory Verses. |
 | The Whole Works of William Browne |  |
357
X. Commendatory Verses.
TO HIS WORTHY AND INGENIOUS FRIEND THE AUTHOR.
So farre as can a swayne (who then a roundeOn oaten-pipe no further boasts his skill)
I dare to censure the shrill trumpets sound,
Or other musick of the Sacred Hil:
The popular applause hath not so fell
(Like Nile's lowd cataract) possest mine eares
But others songs I can distinguish well
And chant their praise, despis'd vertue reares:
Nor shall thy buskind muse be heard alone
In stately pallaces; the shady woods
By me shall learn't, and eccho's one by one
Teach it the hils, and they the silver floods.
Our learned shepheards that have us'd tofore
Their happy gifts in notes that wooe the plaines,
By rural ditties will be knowne no more;
But reach at fame by such as are thy straines.
And I would gladly (if the Sisters spring
Had me inabled) beare a part with thee,
358
But since it fits not my weake melodie,
It shall suffice that thou such means do'st give,
That my harsh lines among the best may live.
W. Browne, Int. Temp.
TO MY HONOR'D FRIEND MR. DRAYTON.
Englands
braue Genius, raise thy head, and see,
We haue a Muse in this mortalitie
Of Vertue yet suruiues; All met not Death,
When wee intoomb'd our deare Elizabeth.
Immortall Sydney, honoured Colin Clout,
Presaging what wee feele, went timely out.
Then why liues Drayton, when the Times refuse,
Both Meanes to liue, and Matter sor a Muse?
Onely without Excuse to leaue vs quite,
And tell vs, Durst we act, he durst to write.
We haue a Muse in this mortalitie
Of Vertue yet suruiues; All met not Death,
When wee intoomb'd our deare Elizabeth.
Immortall Sydney, honoured Colin Clout,
Presaging what wee feele, went timely out.
Then why liues Drayton, when the Times refuse,
Both Meanes to liue, and Matter sor a Muse?
Onely without Excuse to leaue vs quite,
And tell vs, Durst we act, he durst to write.
Now, as the people of a famish'd Towne,
Receiuing no Supply, seeke vp and downe
For mouldy Corne, and Bones long cast aside,
Wherewith their hunger may bee satisfide.
(Small store now left) we are inforc'd to prie
And search the darke Leaues of Antiquitie
For some good Name, to raise our Muse againe,
In this her Crisis, whose harmonious straine
Was of such compasse, that no other Nation
Durst euer venture on a sole Translation;
Whilst our full language, Musicall and hie,
Speakes as themselues their best of Poesie.
Receiuing no Supply, seeke vp and downe
For mouldy Corne, and Bones long cast aside,
Wherewith their hunger may bee satisfide.
(Small store now left) we are inforc'd to prie
And search the darke Leaues of Antiquitie
For some good Name, to raise our Muse againe,
In this her Crisis, whose harmonious straine
Was of such compasse, that no other Nation
Durst euer venture on a sole Translation;
Whilst our full language, Musicall and hie,
Speakes as themselues their best of Poesie.
359
Drayton, amongst the worthi'st of all those,
The glorious Laurell, or the Cyprian Rose,
Haue euer crown'd, doth claime in euery Lyne,
An equall honor from the sacred Nyne:
For if old Time could like the restlesse Maine
Rock himselfe backe into his Spring againe,
And on his wings beare this admired Muse,
For Ovid, Virgil, Homer, to peruse,
They would confesse, that neuer happier Pen
Sung of his Loues, the Countrey, and the Men.
The glorious Laurell, or the Cyprian Rose,
Haue euer crown'd, doth claime in euery Lyne,
An equall honor from the sacred Nyne:
For if old Time could like the restlesse Maine
Rock himselfe backe into his Spring againe,
And on his wings beare this admired Muse,
For Ovid, Virgil, Homer, to peruse,
They would confesse, that neuer happier Pen
Sung of his Loues, the Countrey, and the Men.
William Browne.
VPON THIS WORKE OF HIS BELOUED FRIEND THE AVTHOR.
I am snap't already, and may goe my way;
The Poet Critick's cane; I heare him say,
This Towne's mistooke, the Authors Worke's a Play.
The Poet Critick's cane; I heare him say,
This Towne's mistooke, the Authors Worke's a Play.
He could not misse it; he will strait appeare
At such a baite; 'twas laid on purpose there
To take the vermine, and I haue him here.
At such a baite; 'twas laid on purpose there
To take the vermine, and I haue him here.
Sirra, you wilbe nibling; a small bitt
(A sillable), when yo' are i' the hungry fitt,
Will serue to stay the stomacke of your witt.
(A sillable), when yo' are i' the hungry fitt,
Will serue to stay the stomacke of your witt.
360
Foole; Knaue; what's worse? for worse cannot depraue thee.
And were the diuell now instantly to haue thee,
Thou canst not instance such a worke to saue thee,
And were the diuell now instantly to haue thee,
Thou canst not instance such a worke to saue thee,
'Mongst all the ballets which thou dost compose,
And what thou stil'st thy Poems, ill as those,
And, void of rime and reason, thy worse Prose.
And what thou stil'st thy Poems, ill as those,
And, void of rime and reason, thy worse Prose.
Yet like a rude Iack-sauce in Poesie,
With thoughts vnblest and hand vnmanerly,
Rauishing branches from Apollo's tree:
With thoughts vnblest and hand vnmanerly,
Rauishing branches from Apollo's tree:
Thou mak'st a garland (for thy touch vnfit)
And boldly deck'st thy pig-brain'd sconce with it,
As if it were the Supreme Head of wit.
And boldly deck'st thy pig-brain'd sconce with it,
As if it were the Supreme Head of wit.
The blameles Muses blush, who not allow
That reuerend Order to each vulgar brow;
Whose sinfull touch prophanes the holy Bough.
That reuerend Order to each vulgar brow;
Whose sinfull touch prophanes the holy Bough.
Hence (shallow Prophet) and admire the straine
Of thine owne Pen, or thy poore Copesmat's veine:
This Piece too curious is for thy coarse braine.
Of thine owne Pen, or thy poore Copesmat's veine:
This Piece too curious is for thy coarse braine.
Here witt (more fortvnate) is ioyn'd with Art,
And that most sacred Frenzie beares a part,
Infus'd by Nature in the Poet's heart.
And that most sacred Frenzie beares a part,
Infus'd by Nature in the Poet's heart.
Here may the Puny-wits themselues direct;
Here may the Vilest find what to affect;
And Kings may learne their proper Dialect.
Here may the Vilest find what to affect;
And Kings may learne their proper Dialect.
On, then, deare friend: thy Pen thy Name shall spread,
And shal'st thou write, while thou shall not be read,
Thy Muse must labour, when thy Hand is dead.
And shal'st thou write, while thou shall not be read,
Thy Muse must labour, when thy Hand is dead.
361
THE AUTHORS FRIEND TO THE READER.
The Printers haste calls on; I must not driueMy time past Sixe, though I begin at Fiue.
One houre I haue entire; and 'tis enough.
Here are no Gipsie Iigges, or Drumming stuffe,
Dances, or other Trumpery to delight,
Or take, by common way, the common sight.
The Avthor of this Poem, as he dares
To stand th' austerest censure, so he cares
As little what it is. His owne best way
Is to be Iudge and Avthor of his Play.
It is his knowledge makes him thus secure;
Nor do's he write to please, but to endure.
And (Reader) if you haue disburs'd a shilling,
To see this worthy Story, and are willing
To haue a large encrease; (if rul'd by me)
You may a Marchant and a Poet be.
'Tis granted for your twelue-pence you did sit,
And See, and Heare, and Vnderstand not yet.
The Avthor (in a Christian pitty) takes
Care of your good, and prints it for your sakes.
That such as will but venter but Six-pence more,
May Know, what they but Saw, and Heard before;
'Twill not be money lost, if you can read,
(Ther's all the doubt now) but your gaines exceed,
362
Free of the freest, and the noblest, Trade.
And in the way of Poetry, now adayes,
Of all that are call'd Workes, the best are Playes.
| The Whole Works of William Browne | |