University of Virginia Library

To the Author, Master Thomas Rawlins.

Kind friend excuse me that doe thus intrude,
Thronging thy Volume with my lines so rude.
Applause is needlesse here, yet this I owe
As due to th'Muses: thine ne're su'd (I know)
For hands, nor voyce, nor pen, nor other praise
Whatsoe're by mortalls us'd, thereby to raise
An Authors name eternally to blisse;
Wer't rightly scann'd (alas) what folly 'tis:
As if a Poets single worke alone,
Wants power to lift him to the spangled Throne
Of highest Iove: or needes their luke-warme fires,
To cut his way or pierce the circled Spheares.
Foolish presumption! whosoe're thou art,
Thus fondly deem'st of Poets princely Art.
Here needs no paultry petty Pioners skill
To fortifie; nay thy melefluous quill
Strikes Momus with a maze, and silence deepe,
And doom'd poore Zoilus to the Lethean sleepe.
Then ben't dismay'd, J know thy Booke will live,
And deathlesse Trophies to thy name shall give.
Who doubts, where Venus and Minerva meete
In every line, how pleasantly they greete?
Strewing thy paths with Roses, red and white,
To decke thy Silver-streames of fluent wit;
And entertaine the graces of thy minde
O may thy early head be sweet shelter finde,
Under the umbraes of those verdant bayes:
Ordain'd for sacred Posies sweet layes.
Such are thy lines, in such a curious dresse,
Compos'd so quaintly; that if J may guesse,
None save thine owne should dare t'approach the Presse.