It shall not grieve me (friend) though what I write Be held no wit at Court. If I delight So farre my sullen Genius, as to raise It pleasure; I have money, wine, and bayes Enough to crowne me Poet. Let those wits, Who teach their Muse the art of Parasits To win on easie greatnesse; or the yongue Spruce Lawyer who's all impudence and tongue Sweat to divulge their fames: thereby the one Gets fees; the other hyre, I'me best unknowne: Sweet silence I embrace thee, and thee Fate Which didst my birth so wisely moderate; That I by want am neither vilified, Nor yet by riches flatter'd into pride. Resolve me friend (for it must folly be Or else revenge 'gainst niggard Destinie, That makes some Poets raile?) Why are their times So steept in gall? Why so obrayde the times? As if no sin call'd downe heav'ns vengeance more Then cause the world leaves some few writers poore? Tis true, that _Chapmans_ reverend ashes must Lye rudely mingled with the vulgar dust, Cause carefull heyers the wealthy onely have; To build a glorious trouble o're the grave. Yet doe I not despaire, some one may be So seriously devout to Poesie As to translate his reliques, and finde roome In the warme Church, to build him up a tombe. Since _Spencer_ hath a Stone; and _Draytons_ browes Stand petrified ith' wall, with Laurell bowes Yet girt about; and nigh wise _Henries_ herse, Old _Chaucer_ got a Marble for his verse. So courteous is Death; Death Poets brings So high a pompe, to lodge them with their Kings: Yet still they mutiny. If this man please His silly Patron with Hyperboles. Or most mysterious non-sence, give his braine But the strapado in some wanton straine; Hee'le sweare the State lookes not on men of parts And, if but mention'd, slight all other Arts. Vaine ostentation! Let us set so just A rate on knowledge, that the world may trust The Poets Sentence, and not still aver Each Art is to it selfe a flatterer. I write to you Sir on this theame, because Your soule is cleare, and you observe the lawes, Of Poesie so justly, that I chuse Yours onely the example to my muse. And till my browner haire be mixt with gray Without a blush, Ile tread the sportive way, My Muse direct; A Poet youth may be, But age doth dote without Philosophie. _To the World._ _The Perfection of Love._ You who are earth, and cannot rise Above your sence, Boasting the envyed wealth which lyes Bright in your Mistris lips or eyes, Betray a pittyed eloquence. That which doth joyne our soules, so light And quicke doth move. That like the Eagle in his flight, It doth transcend all humane sight, Lost in the element of Love.