With high disdain they said they gave no more
Since Sidney had exhausted all their store.
They took from me the scribbling pen I had;
I to be eased of such a task was glad;

Then to revenge this wrong themselves engage,
And drave me from Parnassus in a rage.
Then wonder not if I no better sped,
Since I the Muses thus have injuréd.

I, pensive for my fault, sat down, and then
Errata, through their leave, threw me my pen;
My poem to conclude two lines they deign,
Which writ, she bade return it to them again.
So Sidney's fame I leave to England's rolls.
His bones do lie interred in stately Paul's.

His Epitaph.

Here lies in fame under this stone
Philip and Alexander both in one,

Heir to the Muses, the son of Mars in truth,
Learning, valor, wisdom, all in virtuous youth.
His praise is much; this shall suffice my pen
That Sidney died 'mong most renowned of men.

IN HONOR OF DU BARTAS, 1641.

Among the happy wits this age hath shown,
Great, dear, sweet Bartas, thou art matchless known.
My ravished eyes and heart, with faltering tongue,
In humble wise have vowed their service long,
But knowing the task so great, and strength but small,
Gave o'er the work before begun withal.

My dazzled sight of late reviewed thy lines,
Where art, and more than art, in nature shines.
Reflection from their beaming altitude

Did thaw my frozen heart's ingratitude,

Which rays, darting upon some richer ground,
Had causéd flowers and fruits soon to abound;
But barren I my daisy here do bring,
A homely flower in this my latter spring.
If summer or my autumn age do yield
Flowers, fruits, in garden, orchard, or in field,
They shall be consecrated in my verse
And prostrate offered at great Bartas' hearse.
My muse unto a child I may compare
Who sees the riches of some famous fair;

V

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' attires,
And thousand times his amazéd mind doth wish
Some part, at least, of that brave wealth were his;
But seeing empty wishes naught obtain,
At night turns to his mother's cot again,
And tells her tales, his full heart over-glad,
Of all the glorious sights his eyes have had,
But finds too soon his want of eloquence.
The silly prattler speaks no word of sense,
But seeing utterance fail his great desires,
Sits down in silence, deeply he admires.
Thus weak-brained I, reading thy lofty style,
Thy profound learning, viewing other while
Thy art in natural philosophy,

Thy saint-like mind in grave divinity,
Thy piercing skill in high astronomy,
And curious insight in anatomy,
Thy physic, music, and state policy,
Valor in war, in peace good husbandry.
Sure liberal nature did with art not small
In all the arts make thee most liberal.

A thousand thousand times my senseless senses
Moveless stand, charmed by thy sweet influences,
More senseless than the stones to Amphion's lute;
Mine eyes are sightless, and my tongue is mute,