Bosworth-field With a Taste of the Variety of Other Poems, Left by Sir John Beaumont ... Set Forth by his Sonne, Sir Iohn Beaumont |
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On the honor'd Poëms of his honored Friend, Sir Iohn Beaumont, Baronet.
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On the honor'd Poëms of his honored Friend, Sir Iohn Beaumont, Baronet.
This Booke will liue; It hath a Genius: ThisAboue his Reader, or his Prayser, is.
Hence, then prophane: Here needs no words expense
In Bulwarkes, Rau'lins, Ramparts, for defense,
Such, as the creeping common Pioners vse
When they doe sweat to fortifie a Muse.
Though I confesse a Beaumonts Booke to bee
The Bound, and Frontire of our Poëtrie;
And doth deserue all muniments of praise,
That Art, or Ingine, on the strength can raise.
Yet, who dares offer a redoubt to reare?
To cut a Dike? or sticke a Stake vp, here,
Before this worke? where Enuy hath not cast
A Trench against it, nor a Battry plac't?
Stay till she make her vaine Approches. Then
If maymed, she come off, Tis not of men
This Fort of so impregnable accesse,
But higher power, as spight could not make lesse,
Nor flatt'ry! but secur'd, by the Authors Name,
Defies, whats crosse to Piety, or good Fame.
And like a hallow'd Temple, free from taint
Of Ethnicisme, makes his Muse a Saint.
Ben Ionson.
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