ed 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 Periegesis,
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 Tyrtaeus 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 refre