The Irish I admire, And still cleave to that Lyre As our Music's mother: And think, till I expire, APOLLO'S such another. As Britons that so long Have held this antique Song; And let all our carpers Forbear their fame to wrong: Th'are right skilful harpers. [Sidenote: SOOWTHERN, an English Lyric. [His _PANDORA_ was published in 1584.]] SOOWTHERN, I long thee spare; Yet wish thee well to fare, Who me pleasedst greatly: As first, therefore more rare, Handling thy harp neatly. To those that with despite Shall term these Numbers slight; Tell them, Their judgment's blind! Much erring from the right. It is a noble kind. [Sidenote: An old English Rhymer.] Nor is 't the Verse doth make, That giveth, or doth take: 'Tis possible to climb, To kindle, or to slake; Although in SKELTON'S rhyme. ODE 2. _To the New Year._ [Illustration] Rich statue double faced! With marble temples graced, To raise thy godhead higher; In flames where, altars shining, Before thy Priests divining, Do od'rous fumes expire. Great JANUS, I thy pleasure, With all the Thespian treasure, Do seriously pursue: To th' passed year returning, As though the Old adjourning; Yet bringing in the New. Thy ancient Vigils yearly, I have observèd clearly; Thy Feasts yet smoking be! Since all thy store abroad is; Give something to my goddess, As hath been used by thee! Give her th' Eoan Brightness! Winged with that subtle lightness That doth transpierce the air; The Roses of the Morning! The rising heaven adorning, To mesh with flames of hair; Those ceaseless Sounds, above all, Made by those orbs that move all; And ever swelling there: Wrapped up in Numbers flowing, Them actually bestowing For jewels at her ear. O rapture great and holy, Do thou transport me wholly So well her form to vary! That I aloft may bear her Where as I will insphere her In regions high and starry. And in my choice Composures, The soft and easy Closures So amorously shall meet, That every lively Ceasure Shall tread a perfect measure, Set on so equal feet. That spray to fame so fert'le, The lover-crowning myrtle, In wreaths of mixèd boughs; Within whose shades are dwelling Those beauties most excelling, Enthroned upon her brows. Those parallels so even, Drawn on the face of heaven, That curious Art supposes; Direct those gems, whose clearness Far off amaze by nearness, Each globe such fire encloses. Her bosom full of blisses, By Nature made for kisses; So pure and wondrous clear: Where as a thousand Graces Behold their lovely faces, As they are bathing there.