A sour and austere kind of men there be, That would outlaw the laws of poesy; And from a commonwealth's well-govern'd lists Some grave and too much severe Platonists Would exclude poets, and have enmity With the soul's freedom, ingenuity. These are so much for wisdom, they forget That Heaven allow'th the use of modest wit. These think the author of a jest alone Is the man that deserves damnation; Holding mirth vicious, and to laugh a sin: Yet we must give these cynics leave to grin. What will they think, when they shall see thee in The plains of fair Elysium? sit among A crowned troop of poets, and a throng Of ancient bards, which soul-delighting choir Sings daily anthems to Apollo's lyre? Amongst which thou shalt sit, and crowned thus, Shalt laugh at Cato and Democritus. Thus shall thy bays be superscrib'd: my pen Did not alone make plays, but also men. E. B.[12] TO HIS FRIEND THE AUTHOR. Bless me, you sacred Sisters! What a throng Of choice encomiums 's press'd? such as was sung When the sweet singer Stesichorus liv'd; Upon whose lips the nightingale surviv'd. What makes my sickly fancy hither hie (Unless it be for shelter), when the eye Of each peculiar artist makes a quest After my slender judgment? then a jest Dissolves my thoughts to nothing, and my pains Has its reward in adding to my stains. But as the river of Athamas can fire The sullen wood, and make its flames aspire, So the infused comfort I receive By th' tie of friendship, prompts me to relieve My fainting spirits, and with a full sail Rush 'mongst your argosies; despite of hail Or storms of critics, friend, to thee I come: I know th' hast harbour, I defy much room: Besides, I'll pay thee for't in grateful verse, Since that thou art wit's abstract, I'll rehearse: Nothing shall wool your ears with a long phrase Of a sententious folly; for to raise Sad pyramids of flattery, that may be Condemn'd for the sincere prolixity. Let envy turn her mantle, and expose Her rotten entrails to infect the rose, Or pine--like greenness of thy extant wit: Yet shall thy Homer's shield demolish it. Upon thy quill as on an eagle's wing, Thou shalt be led through th' air's sweet whispering: And with thy pen thou shalt engrave thy name (Better than pencil) in the list of fame. I. TATHAM.[13] ON MASTER RAWLINS AND HIS TAILOR, IN "THE REBELLION."