Then to reveng this wrong, themfelves engage,
And drave me from Parnaffus in a rage.
Then wonder not if I no better sped,
Since I the Mufes thus have injured.
I penfive for my fault, fate down, and then
Errata through their leave, threw me my pen,
My Poem to conclude, two lines they deign
Which writ, fhe bad return't to them again;
So Sidneys fame I leave to Englands Rolls,
His bones do lie interr'd in ftately Pauls.
Here lies in fame under this ftone,
Philip and Alexander both in one;
With high difdain, they faid they gave no more,
Since Sydney had exhausted all their store,
That this contempt it did the more perplex,
In being done by one of their own fex;
They took from me, the fcribling pen I had,
I to be eas'd of fuch a task was glad.
For to revenge his wrong, themselves ingage,
And drave me from Parnaffus in a rage,
Not because, fweet Sydney's fame was not dear,
But I had blemish'd theirs, to make 't appear :
I penfive for my fault, fat down, and then,
Errata, through their leave threw me my pen,
For to conclude my poem two lines they daigne,
Which writ, the bad return 't to them again.
So Sydney's fame, I leave to England's Rolls,
His bones do lie interr'd in ftately Pauls.
Here lies intomb'd in fame, under this ftone,
Philip and Alexander both in one.
Heir to the Mufes, the Son of Mars in Truth,
Learning, Valour, Wisdome, all in virtuous youth,
His praife is much, this shall suffice my pen,
That Sidney dy'd 'mong most renown'd of men.
Heire to the Mufes, the Son of Mars in truth,
Learning, valour, beauty, all in virtuous youth:
His praife is much, this shall suffice my pen,
That Sidney dy'd the quinteffence of men.
In honour of Du Bartas, 16 4 1.*
mong the happy wits this age hath fhown,
Great, dear, fweet Bartas thou art matchlefs
My ravish'd Eyes and heart with faltering tongue,
In humble wife have vow'd their fervice long,
But knowing th' task fo great, & ftrength but small,
Gave o're the work before begun withal,
My dazled fight of late review'd thy lines,
Where Art, and more then Art, in nature fhines,
Reflection from their beaming Altitude,
Did thaw my frozen hearts ingratitude;
Which Rayes darting upon fome richer ground, [207] Had caufed flours and fruits foon to abound;
But barren I my Dafey here do bring,
A homely flour in this my latter Spring,
If Summer, or my Autumn age do yield,
Flours, fruits, in Garden, Orchard, or in Field,
They fhall be confecrated in my Verfe,
And proftrate offered at great Bartas Herfe;
*For an account of Du Bartas, see Introduction.
My mufe unto a Child I may compare,
Who fees the riches of fome famous Fair,
He feeds his Eyes, but understanding lacks
To comprehend the worth of all those knacks:
The glittering plate and Jewels he admires,
The Hats and Fans, the Plumes and Ladies tires,
And thousand times his mazed mind doth with
Some part (at least) of that brave wealth was his,
But feeing empty wishes nought obtain,
At night turns to his Mothers cot again,
And tells her tales, (his full heart over glad)
Of all the glorious fights his Eyes have had:
But finds too foon his want of Eloquence,
The filly pratler speaks no word of sense;
But seeing utterance fail his great defires,
Sits down in filence, deeply he admires:
Thus weak brain'd I, reading thy lofty ftile,
Thy profound learning, viewing other while;
Thy Art in natural Philofophy,
Thy Saint like mind in grave Divinity;
Thy piercing skill in high Astronomy,
And curious infight in Anatomy:
Thy Phyfick, mufick and ftate policy,
Valour in warr, in peace good husbandry.
Sure lib'ral Nature did with Art not small,
In all the arts make thee moft liberal.
A thousand thoufand times my fenflefs fences
Moveless stand charm'd by thy fweet influences;
More fenfless then the ftones to Amphions Lute,
Mine eyes are fightless, and my tongue is mute,
My full aftonish'd heart doth pant to break,
Through grief it wants a faculty to fpeak:
Volleyes of praises could I eccho then,
Had I an Angels voice, or Bartas pen:
But wishes can't accomplish my defire,
Pardon if I adore, when I admire.
O France thou did'ft in him more glory gain
Then in thy Martel, Pipin, Charlemain,
Then in St. Lewes, or thy last Henry Great,
Who tam'd his foes in warrs, in bloud and fweat.
Thy fame is spread as far, I dare be bold,
In all the Zones, the temp'rate, hot and cold.
Their Trophies were but heaps of wounded flain,
Thine, the quinteffence of an heroick brain.
The oaken Garland ought to deck their brows,
Immortal Bayes to thee all men allows.
VVho in thy tryumphs never won by wrongs,
Lead'ft millions chaind by eyes, by ears, by tongues
Oft have I wondred at the hand of heaven,
In giving one what would have served seven.
If e're this golden gift was fhowr'd on any,
Thy double portion would have ferved many.
Unto each man his riches is affign'd
Of Name, of State, of Body and of Mind:
Thou hadst thy part of all, but of the last,
O pregnant brain, O comprehenfion vast:
b foes, in bloud, in skarres.
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