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Arisbas, Euphues amidst his slumbers

Or Cupid's Iourney to Hell. Decyphering a myrror of Constancie, a Touch-stone of tried affection, begun in chaste desires, ended in choise delights: And emblasoning Beauties glorie, adorned by Natures bountie. VVith the Trivmph of Trve Loue, in the Soyle of false Fortune. By I. D. i.e. John Dickenson]
 
 

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The worth of Poesie.
 

The worth of Poesie.

Impute it not prophane impietie,
Dread god of Delos, and chaste virgin-troupe:
To him that, in vnpitied miserie
That doth enforce his wearied muse to stoupe,
And him all cheerlesse abiect-like to droupe,
Reueales those holie secrets of your hill,
That do concerne defence of depest skill.


Vnder the couert of a Laurell tree,
Vpon the mount where learned Muses dwel:
Rare monuments of worth enshrined bee,
The workes of Laureate pens, workes which excell,
Cherish'd by comfort of Castalian well:
There rest they safe: though safe, yet once assailde
By three mishaped elues, which fled and failde.
There laie enrolde in euerlasting lines,
Epique records wrapt in heroique stile:
There laie enclosde in those eternall shrines,
Sweete Hymns and Odes that lyriques did compile,
And Elegies, and Epigrams sharpe file,
With th'other graces of a laureate quill,
Whence hony sweets do copiously distill.
Pale enuy Beldame-like with staffe vpholding
Her cursed limbs, came first and tooke a sitting,
In lothsome signes her deadly teene vnfolding,
Neare to that hallowed place how il befitting,
How much annoyd through her contagious spitting,
T'infect the tree that did those branches nourish,
And kill the roote whose moisture fed their flourish?
From depth of poisnous mawe the monster fierce
Did belch foule gobbets with an hell of snakes,
Wallowing in lothsome filth, that did empierce
The teinted ground: Forthwith the Laurell shakes,
For whose decaie the hag that vomit makes,
Which sinking downe corrupted roote and all,
With Christall drops that from the spring did fall.
Soone as the erst-greene began to perish,
And witherd branches could no longer couer
Those antique rolles, or them with safetie cherish,
A second hag still darknesse silent louer:


Obliuion hight, slow hag did slily houer,
Suted in duskie robe of pitchie staine,
Like to an hanging cloude that threatens raine.
Well did this name of Lethe her beseeme,
Which oft forgot her selfe and her entent:
Eftsoone she staid, as doubting what to deeme:
Then forth she stept: nor long she forward went,
But staid againe, as musing what was ment.
But being come, she towards her gan rake
Those monuments, that prize her praie to make.
Then Ignorance that doth Arts glory blot,
Ran to the tree to get a Laurell wreath,
Before the branches by that fatal spot
Were wasted cleane, that rose from vnderneath:
Nor would she stop, nor did she stand to breath,
Till tree was toucht: thus did the sot desire,
The highest praise of laureate Poets hire.
She thought it meete her pupils to inuest
With lasting bay: and in that fairest place
To lodge their lines, where worthier workes did rest,
But when they were repulst with deepe disgrace,
She hirde those hags both glories to deface.
Those clues of horror which did yeeld their helpe,
The one despaires, the other darknesse whelpe.
O bane of blisse, gainst worthiest wits pretended,
O lucklesse lot ô iniurie of time:
Foule-fall the hags that such ill hap entended,
And haggish brood enuying honors prime:
When high-plum'd Muse through Empyre skies doth climbe:
And curses all which holy Poemes hold,
Light on the hags that stop those mines of gold.


O who could harbour such inhumane thought,
Though he Hircanian Tygres milke did sucke?
Heart more flint-hard then beating waues haue wrought
On sea-washt rockes, reward from arte would plucke,
And guerdonize desert with direst lucke.
Stand they good Gods dull stones ay-vnremoued,
That such despight by censure fell approued.
Fame gliding from on high did there alight,
Viewde their attempts, and rested on the tree:
The earth was circled with a glorious light,
(Such light as mortall eye could neuer see)
Forcing the elfe which had those hags in fee,
To troth with apish pace vnto some caue,
The halfe-lost vse of daseled eyes to saue.
The winged Goddesse moude with high disdaine,
So shrill a note from siluer trompet sounded,
That slowe obliuion posted thence amaine,
Whose eares that strange vnwonted noise confounded,
Eares where small helpe for memory was grounded.
Pale enuy fled surprizde with doubtfull feare,
Whose witherd cheekes with wrinckles furrowed were.
The filth boild vp: the leaues wexd greene againe:
The Lawrell flourisht in her former hue:
Fame bade Desert for euer there remaine
With light and sound, to shield a Poets due,
By safe defence from wrongs that might ensue.
Thus I record that future age may tell,
Loe this is he that wisht to Poets well.