Will ye into your sacred throng admit The meanest British wit? Ye General Council of the Priests of Fame, Will ye not murmur and disdain That I a place amongst ye claim The humblest Deacon of her train? Will ye allow me the honourable chain? The chain of ornament, which here Your noble prisoners proudly wear? A chain which will more pleasant seem to me Than all my own Pindaric liberty. Will ye to bind me with these mighty names submit Like an Apocrypha with Holy Writ? Whatever happy Book is chainèd here, No other place or people needs to fear; His chain's a passport to go everywhere. As when a seat in Heaven Is to an unmalicious sinner given, Who casting round his wondering Eye Does none but Patriarchs and Apostles there espy, Martyrs who did their lives bestow And Saints who Martyrs lived below, With trembling and amazement he begins To recollect his frailties past and sins, He doubts almost his station there, His soul says to itself, 'How came I here?' It fares no otherwise with me When I myself with conscious wonder see Amidst this purified elected company; With hardship they and pain Did to their happiness attain. No labours I or merits can pretend; I think, Predestination only was my friend. Ah! if my author had been tied like me, To such a place and such a company, Instead of several countries, several men, And business, which the Muses hate! He might have then improved that small estate Which Nature sparingly did to him give, He might perhaps have thriven then, And settled upon me, his child, somewhat to live; It had happier been for him, as well as me. For when all, alas, is done, We Books, I mean you Books, will prove to be The best and noblest conversation. For though some errors will get in, Like tinctures of original sin, Yet sure we from our Father's wit Draw all the strength and spirits of it, Leaving the grosser parts for conversation, As the best blood of man's employed on generation. A. COWLEY. ON SIR THOMAS BODLEY'S LIBRARY, THE AUTHOR BEING THEN IN OXFORD