ty care
That kept my pen from spending on slight ware,
And breath'd it for a prize, whose pow'rful shine
Doth both reward the striver, and refine.
Such are thy poems, friend: for since th' hast writ,
I can't reply to any name, but wit;
And lest amidst the throng that make us groan,
Mine prove a groundless heresy alone,
Thus I dispute, Hath there not rev'rence been
Paid to the beard at door, for Lord within?
Who notes the spindle-leg or hollow eye
Of the thin usher, the fair lady by?
Thus I sin freely, neighbour to a hand
Which, while I aim to strengthen, gives command
For my protection; and thou art to me
At once my subject and security.

I. Rowlandson, Oxoniensis.

UPON THE FOLLOWING POEMS.

I write not here, as if thy last in store
Of learned friends; 'tis known that thou hast more;
Who, were they told of this, would find a way
To raise a guard of poets without pay,
And bring as many hands to thy edition,
As th' City should unto their May'r's petition.
But thou wouldst none of this, lest it should be
Thy muster rather than our courtesy;
Thou wouldst not beg as knights do, and appear
Poet by voice and suffrage of the shire;
That were enough to make my Muse advance
Amongst the crutches; nay, it might enhance
Our charity, and we should think it fit
The State should build an hospital for wit.
But here needs no relief: thy richer verse
Creates all poets, that can but rehearse,
And they, like tenants better'd by their land,
Should pay thee rent for what they understand.
Thou art not of that lamentable nation
Who make a blessed alms of approbation,
Whose fardel-notes are briefs in ev'rything,
But, that they are not _Licens'd by the king_.
Without such scrape-requests thou dost come forth
Arm'd--though I speak it--with thy proper worth,
And needest not this noise of friends, for we
Write out of love, not thy necessity.
And though this sullen age possessed be
With some strange desamour to poetry,
Yet I suspect--thy fancy so delights--
The Puritans will turn thy proselytes,
And that thy flame, when once abroad it shines,
Will bring thee as many friends as thou hast lines.

Eugenius Philalethes, Oxoniensis.

OLOR ISCANUS.