I do record, and when in bookes I chance to find the fame Of any after death decai’d, I do reuiue the same: Turning the volume large of late, in which my _Clio_ sings The deeds of worthie Britaines dead, I find that many kings Exempted are, whose noble acts deserue eternitie, And mongst our Mirrours challenge place for all posteritie: For which, my station I haue left, and now am come to thee, This night thou must abandon sleepe, my pen-man thou must bee.” To this said I: “O goddesse great, the taske thou dost impose Exceeds the compasse of my skill, t’is fitter farre for those, Whose pens sweet nectar do distill, to whom the power is giuen Vpon their winged verse to rap their readers vp to heau’n: The pinions of my humble muse be all too weake to flie So large a flight; theirs be this taske that loue to soare on high: But how can they such taske vp-take, that in a stately straine Haue rais’d the dead out of the dust; yet after all their paine, When their sweet muse in vertue’s praise hath powred out their store, Are still despis’d and doom’d for aye with vertue to be poore.” To this, “alas,” quoth Memorie, “it grieues me to behold The learned wits left all forlorne, t’whom whilome it was told Mæcenas was reuiu’d againe: yet grieue I more to see The loathed lozell to prophane that sacred mysterie: Each vulgar wit, that what it is, could neuer yet define, In ragged rimes with lips profane, will call the learned nine To helpe him vtter forth the spawne of his vnfruitfull braine, Which makes our peerelesse poesie to be in such disdaine, That now it skils not whether Pan do pipe, or Phœbus play, Tom Tinkar makes best harmonie to passe the time away: For this I grieue, for this the seed of Ioue are held in scorne, Yet not for this our worthies dead are to be left forlorne: For so no future age should know the truth of things forepast, The names of their forefathers dead would in the dust be cast: Then do not thou thy helpe denie, I will conduct thy pen, And fame shall summon vp the ghosts of all those worthie men, That mongst our Mirrours are not found, that each one orderly May come to thee, to tell the truth of his sad tragedie.” Thus hauing said, she tooke the booke from vnderneath my head, And turning ore the leaues, at last, she thus began to reade. THE FAMOVS LIFE AND _Death of King Arthvr_. THE ARGUMENT.