A prince’s statue, or in marble carv’d, Or steel, or gold, and shrin’d, to be preserv’d, Aloft on pillars or pyramides, Time into lowest ruins may depress; But drawn with all his virtues in learn’d verse, Fame shall resound them on oblivion’s hearse, Till graves gasp with her blasts, and dead men rise. No gold can follow where true Poesy flies. Then let not this divinity in earth, Dear Prince, be slighted as she were the birth Of idle fancy, since she works so high; Nor let her poor disposer, Learning, lie Still bed-rid. Both which being in men defac’d, In men with them is God’s bright image ras’d; For as the Sun and Moon are figures giv’n Of his refulgent Deity in heav’n, So Learning, and, her light’ner, Poesy, In earth present His fiery Majesty. Nor are kings like Him, since their diadems Thunder and lighten and project brave beams, But since they His clear virtues emulate, In truth and justice imaging His state, In bounty and humanity since they shine, Than which is nothing like Him more divine; Not fire, not light, the sun’s admiréd course, The rise nor set of stars, nor all their force In us and all this cope beneath the sky, Nor great existence, term’d His treasury; Since not for being greatest He is blest, But being just, and in all virtues best. What sets His justice and His truth best forth, Best Prince, then use best, which is Poesy’s worth; For, as great princes, well inform’d and deck’d With gracious virtue, give more sure effect To her persuasions, pleasures, real worth, Than all th’ inferior subjects she sets forth; Since there she shines at full, hath birth, wealth, state, Pow’r, fortune, honour, fit to elevate Her heav’nly merits, and so fit they are, Since she was made for them, and they for her; So Truth, with Poesy grac’d, is fairer far, More proper, moving, chaste, and regular, Than when she runs away with untruss’d Prose; Proportion, that doth orderly dispose Her virtuous treasure, and is queen of graces; In Poesy decking her with choicest phrases, Figures and numbers; when loose Prose puts on Plain letter-habits makes her trot upon Dull earthly business, she being mere divine; Holds her to homely cates and harsh hedge-wine, That should drink Poesy’s nectar; ev’ry way One made for other, as the sun and day, Princes and virtues. And, as in spring, The pliant water mov’d with anything Let fall into it, puts her motion out In perfect circles, that move round about The gentle fountain, one another raising; So Truth and Poesy work; so Poesy, blazing All subjects fall’n in her exhaustless fount, Works most exactly, makes a true account Of all things to her high discharges giv’n, Till all be circular and round as heav’n.