all; or, if at all, to thee:

Because, who make the question, haue not seene

Those ambling visits, passe in verse, betweene

Thy Muse, and mine, as they expect. ’Tis true:

You haue not writ to me, nor I to you;

And, though I now begin, ’tis not to rub

Hanch against Hanch, or raise a riming Club

About the towne: this reck’ning I will pay,

Without conferring symboles. This ’s my day.

It was no Dreame! I was awake, and saw!

Lend me thy voyce, O Fame, that I may draw

Wonder to truth! and haue my Vision hoorld,

Hot from thy trumpet, round, about the world.

I saw a Beauty from the Sea to rise,

That all Earth look’d on; and that earth, all Eyes!

It cast a beame as when the chear-full Sun

Is fayre got vp, and day some houres begun!

And fill’d an Orbe as circular, as heauen!

The Orbe was cut forth into Regions seauen.

And those so sweet, and well proportion’d parts,

As it had beene the circle of the Arts!

When, by thy bright Ideas standing by,

I found it pure, and perfect Poesy,

There read I, streight, thy learned Legends three,

Heard the soft ayres, between our Swaynes & thee,

Which made me thinke, the old Theocritus,

Or Rurall Virgil come, to pipe to vs!

But then, thy’epistolar Heroick Songs,

Their loues, their quarrels, iealousies, and wrongs

Did all so strike me, as I cry’d, who can

With vs be call’d, the Naso, but this man?

And looking vp, I saw Mineruas fowle,

Pearch’d ouer head, the wise Athenian Owle:

I thought thee then our Orpheus, that wouldst try

Like him, to make the ayre, one volary:

And I had stil’d thee, Orpheus, but before

My lippes could forme the voyce, I heard that Rore,

And Rouze, the Marching of a mighty force,

Drums against Drums, the neighing of the Horse,

The Fights, the Cryes, and wondring at the Iarres

I saw, and read, it was thy Barons Warres!

O, how in those, dost thou instruct these times,

That Rebells actions, are but valiant crimes!

And caried, though with shoute, and noyse, confesse

A wild, and an authoriz’d wickednesse!

Sayst thou so, Lucan? But thou scornst to stay

Vnder one title. Thou hast made thy way

And flight about the Ile, well neare, by this,

In thy admired Periégesis,

Or vniuersall circumduction

Of all that reade thy Poly-Olbyon.

That reade it? that are rauish’d! such was I

With euery song, I sweare, and so would dye:

But that I heare, againe, thy Drum to beate

A better cause, and strike the brauest heate

That euer yet did fire the English blood!

Our right in France! if ritely vnderstood.

There, thou art Homer! Pray thee vse the stile

Thou hast deseru’d: And let me reade the while

Thy Catalogue of Ships, exceeding his,

Thy list of aydes, and force, for so it is:

The Poets act! and for his Country’s sake

Braue are the Musters, that the Muse will make.

And when he ships them where to vse their Armes,

How do his trumpets breath! What loud alarmes!

Looke, how we read the Spartans were inflam’d

With bold Tyrtæus verse, when thou art nam’d,

So shall our English Youth vrge on, and cry

An Agincourt, an Agincourt, or dye.

This booke! it is a Catechisme to fight,

And will be bought of euery Lord, and Knight,

That can but reade; who cannot, may in prose

Get broken peeces, and fight well by those.

The miseries of Margaret the Queene

Of tender eyes will more be wept, then seene:

I feele it by mine owne, that ouer flow,

And stop my sight, in euery line I goe.

But then refreshed,