To see a springot of thy tender age With such a lofty strain to word a stage; To see a tragedy from thee in print, With such a world of fine meanders in't, Puzzles my wond'ring soul; for there appears Such disproportion 'twixt thy lines and years, That when I read thy lines, methinks I see The sweet-tongued Ovid fall upon his knee, With (_parce precor_) every line and word Runs in sweet numbers of its own accord: But I am wonder-struck that all this while Thy unfeather'd quill should write a tragic style. This above all my admiration draws, That one so young should know dramatic laws. 'Tis rare, and therefore is not for the span Or greasy thumbs of every common man. The damask rose, that sprouts before the spring, Is fit for none to smell at but a king. Go on, sweet friend; I hope in time to see Thy temples rounded with the Daphnean tree. And if men ask who nurs'd thee, I'll say thus, It was the ambrosian spring of Pegasus. ROBERT CHAMBERLAIN.[9] TO HIS FRIEND, MASTER THOMAS RAWLINS, ON HIS PLAY CALLED "THE REBELLION." I will not praise thee, friend, nor is it fit, Lest I be said to flatter what y' have writ: For some will say I writ to applaud thee, That when I print, thou may'st do so for me. Faith, they're deceiv'd, thou justly claim'st thy bays: Virtue rewards herself; thy work's thy praise. T. JOURDAN.[10] TO THE AUTHOR, MASTER THOMAS RAWLINS. Kind friend, excuse me, that do thus intrude, Thronging thy volume with my lines so rude. Applause is needless here, yet this I owe, As due to th' Muses; thine ne'er su'd (I know) For hands, nor voice, nor pen, nor other praise Whatsoe'er by mortals us'd, thereby to raise An author's name eternally to bliss. Were't rightly scann'd (alas!) what folly 'tis! As if a poet's single work alone Wants power to lift him to the spangled throne Of highest Jove; or needs their lukewarm fires, To cut his way or pierce the circled spheres. Foolish presumption! whosoe'er thou art, Thus fondly deem'st of poet's princely art, Here needs no paltry petty pioneer's skill To fortify; nay, thy mellifluous quill Strikes Momus with amaze and silence deep, And doom'd poor Zoilus to the Lethean sleep. Then ben't dismay'd, I know thy book will live, And deathless trophies to thy name shall give. Who doubts, where Venus and Minerva meet In every line, how pleasantly they greet? Strewing thy paths with roses, red and white, To deck thy silver-streams of fluent wit; And entertain the graces of thy mind. O, may thy early head sweet shelter find Under the umbrage of those verdant bays, Ordain'd for sacred poesy's sweet lays! Such are thy lines, in such a curious dress, Compos'd so quaintly, that, if I may guess, None save thine own should dare t' approach the press. I. GOUGH.[11] TO THE INGENIOUS AUTHOR.