An _entremés_ entitled _La destrucción de Troya_, a play called _Las Firmezas de Isabela_ (written in collaboration with his brother, Juan de Argote), and a fragment, the _Comedia Venatoria_, remain to show that Góngora wrote for the stage. Whether he was ever played is doubtful, and, in any case, his gift is not dramatic. He was so curiously careless of his writings that he never troubled to print or even to keep copies of them, and a remark which he let fall during his last illness goes to show his artistic dissatisfaction:—"Just as I was beginning to know something of the first letters in my alphabet does God call me to Himself: His will be done!" His poems circulated mostly in manuscript copies, which underwent so many changes that the author often knew not his own work when it returned to his hands; and, but for the piety of Juan López de Vicuña, Góngora might be for us the shadow of a great name. López de Vicuña spent twenty years in collecting his scattered verse, which he published in the very year of the poet's death, under the resounding title of _Works in Verse of the Spanish Homer_. A later and better edition was produced by Gonzalo de Hoces y Córdoba (1633). Góngora began with the lofty ode, as a strict observer of literary tradition, a reverent imitator of Herrera's heroics. His earliest essays are not very easy to distinguish from those of his contemporaries, save that his tone is nobler and that his execution is more conscientious. He was a craftsman from the outset, and his technical equipment is singularly complete. So far was he from showing any freakish originality, that he is open to the reproach of undue devotion to his masters. His thought is theirs as much as are his method, his form, his ornament, his ingenuity. An example of his early style is his _Ode to the Armada_, of which we may quote a stanza from Churton's translation:— "_O Island, once so Catholic, so strong, Fortress of Faith, now Heresy's foul shrine, Camp of train'd war, and Wisdom's sacred school; The time hath been, such majesty was thine, The lustre of thy crown was first in song. Now the dull weeds that spring by Stygian pool Were fitting wreath for thee. Land of the rule Of Arthurs, Edwards, Henries! Where are they? Their Mother where, rejoicing in their sway, Firm in the strength of Faith? To lasting shame Condemn'd, through guilty blame Of her who rules thee now. O hateful Queen, so hard of heart and brow, Wanton by turns, and cruel, fierce, and lewd, Thou distaff on the throne, true virtue's bane, Wolf-like in every mood, May Heaven's just flame on thy false tresses rain!_"