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108
In Honorem Poetarum.
Whose poore conceit is that
That Poets should be poore?
They talk they know not what,
Alas! they wish no more,
They have Enough in that they see
Content is worth a monarchy.
That Poets should be poore?
They talk they know not what,
Alas! they wish no more,
They have Enough in that they see
Content is worth a monarchy.
Do not the sacred Nine,
Come daily to their houses,
And break their fast, and dine,
And sup, and soop carouses?
Who calls them poore then, that are able,
To feast the Muses at their table?
Come daily to their houses,
And break their fast, and dine,
And sup, and soop carouses?
Who calls them poore then, that are able,
To feast the Muses at their table?
Yee go to Poets, when
Your dearest friends be dead,
They give them life agen
Though they be buried:
Tis strange then, Poets should not live
That thus can life to dead men give.
Your dearest friends be dead,
They give them life agen
Though they be buried:
Tis strange then, Poets should not live
That thus can life to dead men give.
Yea all the world must know,
Save those to truth averse,
The swaine was taught to plow,
By Virgills fertil verse.
Tis strange then, he should needy be,
Found out the art of Husbandry.
Save those to truth averse,
The swaine was taught to plow,
By Virgills fertil verse.
Tis strange then, he should needy be,
Found out the art of Husbandry.
Riplïe was rich I trow,
VVhose Poems did enfold
That which men hunt for soe,
The art of making Gold:
He had the Phylosophick stone,
Sure hee, must then be rich, or none.
VVhose Poems did enfold
That which men hunt for soe,
The art of making Gold:
He had the Phylosophick stone,
Sure hee, must then be rich, or none.
109
Yea, do not all men say?
Poets dare any thing:
Pray was not noble May
Calld brother by a King?
Nor is it more then true report,
Satyrick lines have hang'd a sort.
Poets dare any thing:
Pray was not noble May
Calld brother by a King?
Nor is it more then true report,
Satyrick lines have hang'd a sort.
Euridice could tell
That being ravisht hence,
Bold Orpheus ransackt hell,
And rescu'd her from thence.
Yea verses so Magnetick are,
They fetch the Moon down from the sphear.
That being ravisht hence,
Bold Orpheus ransackt hell,
And rescu'd her from thence.
Yea verses so Magnetick are,
They fetch the Moon down from the sphear.
Nor have they only power,
But gifts of prophesie,
The most celestiall dower,
Heavens give mortalitie.
Sure then they can't want costly Cates,
Being Oracles and Potentates.
But gifts of prophesie,
The most celestiall dower,
Heavens give mortalitie.
Sure then they can't want costly Cates,
Being Oracles and Potentates.
They that have most, still itch
For more, more baggs to stuffe,
VVhilst they are only rich,
Can see they have enuffe;
How poorly fools of Poets prate?
Come, they are poore, whom God doth hate.
For more, more baggs to stuffe,
VVhilst they are only rich,
Can see they have enuffe;
How poorly fools of Poets prate?
Come, they are poore, whom God doth hate.
Princeps; & Vates non quovis nascitur anno.
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