What lofty Trophyes of eternall Fame, England may vaunt thou do’st erect to her, Yet forced to confesse, (yea blush for shame,) That she no Honour doth on thee confer. How it would become her, would she learne to knowe Once to requite thy Heauen-borne Art and Zeale, Or at the least her selfe but thankfull showe Her ancient Glories that do’st still reueale: Sing thou of Loue, thy straines (like powerfull Charmes) Enrage the bosome with an amorous fire, And when againe thou lik’st to sing of Armes The Coward thou with Courage do’st inspire: But when thou com’st to touch our Sinfull Times, Then Heauen far more then Earth speakes in thy Rimes. IOHN REYNOLDS. THE VISION OF BEN. IONSON, ON THE MVSES OF HIS FRIEND M. DRAYTON. It hath beene question’d, Michael, if I bee A Friend at all; or, if at all, to thee: Because, who make the question, haue not seene Those ambling visits, passe in verse, betweene Thy Muse, and mine, as they expect. ’Tis true: You haue not writ to me, nor I to you; And, though I now begin, ’tis not to rub Hanch against Hanch, or raise a riming Club About the towne: this reck’ning I will pay, Without conferring symboles. This ’s my day. It was no Dreame! I was awake, and saw! Lend me thy voyce, O Fame, that I may draw Wonder to truth! and haue my Vision hoorld, Hot from thy trumpet, round, about the world. I saw a Beauty from the Sea to rise, That all Earth look’d on; and that earth, all Eyes! It cast a beame as when the chear-full Sun Is fayre got vp, and day some houres begun! And fill’d an Orbe as circular, as heauen! The Orbe was cut forth into Regions seauen. And those so sweet, and well proportion’d parts, As it had beene the circle of the Arts! When, by thy bright Ideas standing by, I found it pure, and perfect Poesy, There read I, streight, thy learned Legends three, Heard the soft ayres, between our Swaynes & thee, Which made me thinke, the old Theocritus, Or Rurall Virgil come, to pipe to vs! But then, thy’epistolar Heroick Songs, Their loues, their quarrels, iealousies, and wrongs Did all so strike me, as I cry’d, who can With vs be call’d, the Naso, but this man? And looking vp, I saw Mineruas fowle, Pearch’d ouer head, the wise Athenian Owle: I thought thee then our Orpheus, that wouldst try Like him, to make the ayre, one volary: And I had stil’d thee, Orpheus, but before My lippes could forme the voyce, I heard that Rore, And Rouze, the Marching of a mighty force, Drums against Drums, the neighing of the Horse, The Fights, the Cryes, and wondring at the Iarres I saw, and read, it was thy Barons Warres! O, how in those, dost thou instruct these times, That Rebells actions, are but valiant crimes! And caried, though with shoute, and noyse, confesse A wild, and an authoriz’d wickednesse! Sayst thou so, Lucan? But thou scornst to stay Vnder one title.