University of Virginia Library

Ode. 1.

[This earth, is the nourishing feate]

Strophe. 1.

This earth, is the nourishing feate,
As well that deliuers to eate:
As els throwes out all that we can
Deuise, that should be needefull fore
The health, of or disease or sore,
The houshold companions of man.
And this earth, hath hearbes soueraine,
To empeach sicknesses sodaine,
If they be well aptlie applide.
And this yearth, spues vp many a breuage,
Of which if we knew well the vsage:
Would force the force Acherontide.
Breefe, it lendes vs all that we haue,
With to liue: and it is our graue.
But with all this, yet cannot giue,
Us fayre renowmes, when we be dead.
And in deede they are onelie made,
By our owne vertues whiles we liue.

Antistrophe.

And Marbles (all be they so strong,)
Cannot maintaine our renowmes long:
And neither they be but abuses,
To thinke that other thinges haue puissaunce,
To make for time any resistaunce,
Saue onelie the well singing Muses.
And the fayre Muses that prouide,
For the wise, an immortall name:
Doo neuer garnishe any head.
With Lawrell, by hearesay of Fame.
Nor euerie one that can rime,
Must not thinke to triumph on time.
For they giue not their Diuine furie,
To euerie doting troupe that comes.
Nor the touch of eu'rie ones thommes,
Is not of an eternall durie.

Epode.

No, no, the high singer is hee
Alone: that in the ende must bee
Made proude, with a garland lyke this,
And not eu'rie ryming nouice,
That writes with small wit, and much paine:
And the (Gods knowe) idiot in vaine,
For it's not the way to Parnasse,
Nor it wyll neither come to passe,
If it be not in some wise fiction,
And of an ingenious inuension:
And infanted with pleasant trauaill,
For it alone must win the Laurell.
And onelie the Poet well borne,
Must be he that goes to Parnassus:
And not these companies of Asses,
That haue brought verce almost to scorne.

Strophe. 2.

Making speake (her with a sweete brute)
The ten diuers tongues of my Lute,
I will Fredone in thy honour,
These renowmed songs of Pindar:
And immitate for thee Deuer,
Horace, that braue Latine Harper.
And stand vp Nymphes Aganapide,
Stand vp my wantons Parnasside,
Stand vp wantons and that we sing,
A newe dittie Calaborois,
To the Iban harpe Thebanois,
That had such a murmuring string.
For I will shewt, heere with my verces,
(Following the auncient traces)
As high vp to the ayre this Hymne,
(With a strong bowe and armes, presumpstous)
As Deuer is both wise and vertuous,
And as of my Harpe, he is digne.

Antistrophe.

Muses, you haue had of your father,
Onelie, the particuler fauer,
To keepe fro the reeue enfernall:
And therefore my wantons come sing,
Upon your most best speaking string,
His name that dooth cheerishe you all.
Come Nimphes while I haue a desire,
To strike on a well sounding Lyre,
Of our vertues Deuer the name.
Deuer, that had giuen him in parte:
The Loue, the Warre, Honour, and Arte,
And with them an eternall Fame.
Come Nimphes, your puissaunce is diuine:
And to those that you shew no fauour,
Quicklie they are depriude of honour,
And slaues to the chaines Cossitine.

Epode

Amongst our well renowmed men,
Deuer merits a syluer pen,
Eternally to write his honour,
And I in a well polisht verse,
Can set vp in our Uniuerse,
A Fame, to endure for euer.
And fylde with a Furiæ extreme,
Upon a well superbus ryme:
(On a ryme, and both strong and true)
I wyll (Deuer) pushe thy louanges,
To the eares of people estraunges:
And rauishe them with thy vertue,
But in trueth I vse but to sing,
After the well intuned string,
Of eyther of the great Prophêts,
Or Thebain, or Calaborois:
Of whether of whome yet the voice,
Hath not beene knowne to our Poëts.

Strophe. 3.

But what shall I beginne to touch:
O Muses what haue I begunne,
But speake wantons, what haue I donne:
Take it of the charge is too much.
No, no, if I would there were made,
I could take an entyre Iliade,
Of onelie his noble antiquitie.
But his vertues would blushe with shame:
If I should not by his owne name,
Giue him a laude to our posteritie.
But if I will thus like Pindar,
In many discourses Egar,
Before I wyll come to my point:
Or, or touch his infinitie
Of vertues, in this Poiesie,
Our song wyll neuer be conioint.

Antistrophe.

For who marketh better then hee,
The seuen turning flames of the Skie:
Or hath read more of the antique.
Hath greater knowledge in the tongues:
Or vnderstandes sooner the sownes,
Of the learner to loue Musique.
Or else who hath a fayrer grace,
In the Centauriane arte of Thrace,
Halfe-horse, halfe-man, and with lesse paine,
Dooth bring the Coorsser, indomtable,
To yeeld to the raynes of his bridle:
Uaulting, on the edge of a plaine.
And it pleases me to saye too,
(With a louange, I protest true)
That in England we cannot see,
Any thing lyke Deuer, but hee.
Onelie himselfe he must resemble,
Uertues so much in him assemble.

Epode.