In deep humility we must confess that nothing is yet learnt as to the authorship. Here, in the year 1656, almost at fore-front of _Choyce Drollery_, the very strength of its van-guard, appeared the memorable poem. Whether it were then and there for the first time in print, or borrowed from some still more rare and now-lost volume, none of us can prove. Even at this hour, a possibility remains that our resuscitation of _Choyce Drollery_ may help to bring the unearthing of explanatory facts from zealous students. We scarcely dare to cherish hope of this. Certainly we may not trust to it. For Gerard Langbaine knew the poem well, and quoted oft and largely from it in his 1691 _Account of the English Dramatick Poets_. But he met with it nowhere save in _Choyce Drollery_, and writes of it continually in language that proves how ignorant he was of whom we are to deem the author. Yet he wrote within five-and-thirty years behind the date of its appearance; and might easily have learnt, from men still far from aged, who had read the _Drollery_ on its first publication, whatever they could tell of “The Time-Poets:” if, indeed, they could tell anything. Five years earlier, William Winstanley had given forth his _Lives of the most famous English Poets_, in June, 1686; but he quotes not from it, and leaves us without an _Open Sesame_. Even Oldys could not tell; or Thomas Hearne, who often had remembered whatever Time forgot. As to the date: we believe it was certainly written between 1620 (inclusive) and 1636; nearer the former year. We reconcile ourselves for the failure, by turning to such other and similar poetic groupings as survive. We listen unto Richard Barnfield, when he sings sweetly his “Remembrance of some English Poets,” in 1598. We cling delightedly to the words of our noble Michael Drayton—whose descriptive map of native England, _Polyolbion_, glitters with varie-coloured light, as though it were a mediæval missal: to whom, enditing his Epistle to friend Henry Reynolds—“A Censure of the Poets”—the Muses brought each bard by turn, so that the picture might be faithful: even as William Blake, idealist and spiritual Seer, believed of spirit-likenesses in his own experience. And, not without deep feeling (marvelling, meanwhile, that still the task of printing them with Editorial care is unattempted), we peruse the folio manuscripts of that fair-haired minstrel of the Cavaliers, George Daniel of Beswick, while he also, in his “Vindication of Poesie,” sings in praise of those whose earlier lays are echoing now and always “through the corridors of Time:”— _Truth speaks of old, the power of Poesie;_ _~Amphion~, ~Orpheus~, stones and trees could move;_ _Men, first by verse, were taught Civilitie;_ _’Tis known and granted; yet would it behove_ _Mee, with the Ancient Singers, here to crowne_ _Some later Quills, some Makers of our owne._