University of Virginia Library

TO HIS FRIEND THE AVTHOVR.

Faine would I speake, but yet my tongueti' de muse
In Rivers, thirstlesse; and when she hath most use
Of speech, is strucken dumbe: shee's plenteous poore,
And knew shee lesse to say, shee could say more.
Shee doth enjoy, and yet shee cannot finde
Beginning, too much light hath strucke her blinde;
I could admire thee Iames, and though in truth
The downy Characters of blooming youth,
Searce write thee man, yet if we measure yeares
By vertue, thou a Nestor wilt appeare.
For when most men doe fill their greedy mawes
With Comicke laughter, and the sweaty plause
Of vulgar palmes, others write wounding lines,
And will accuse (though they be worse) the times.
Thou steer'st another course, and spend'st thy oyle
In sacred objects, and in holy toyle,
No sinfull eloquence thy verse defames,
No lustfull sports, nor Cupidinean flames,
Thy Poesye doth neither frowne, nor smile,
There's nor Satyricke, nor Venereous stile,
And must these workes be hid? and car'st thou lesse
To give them to the mothes, then to the Presse?
Free them from darkenesse Iames, that they may be
A light to others, and a crowne to thee;
For ere they shall be long obscur'd, I say
Like Phosphorus Ile usher in thee Day.