In Cuddie is set out the perfect pattern of a Poet, which, finding no maintenance of his state and studies, complaineth of the contempt of Poetry, and the causes thereof: specially having been in all ages, and even amongst the most barbarous, always of singular account and honour, and being indeed so worthy and commendable an art; or rather no art, but a divine gift and heavenly instinct not to be gotten by labour and learning, but adorned with both; and poured into the wit by a certain Enthousiasmos and celestial inspiration, as the Author hereof elsewhere at large discourseth in his book called _The English Poet_, which book being lately come to my hands, I mind also by God's grace, upon further advisement, to publish. PIERS. CUDDIE. PIERS. Cuddie, for shame, hold up thy heavy head, And let us cast with what delight to chase And weary this long ling'ring Phœbus' race. Whilome thou wont the shepheards' lads to lead In rhymes, in riddles, and in bidding base; Now they in thee, and thou in sleep, art dead. CUD. Piers, I have piped erst so long with pain, That all mine oaten reeds be rent and wore, And my poor Muse hath spent her spared store, Yet little good hath got, and much less gain. Such pleasance makes the grasshopper so poor, And lig so laid, when winter doth her strain. The dapper ditties, that I wont devise, To feed youth's fancy, and the flocking fry, Delighten much; what I the bett forthy? They have the pleasure, I a slender prise: I beat the bush, the birds to them do fly: What good thereof to Cuddie can arise? PIERS. Cuddie, the praise is better than the price, The glory eke much greater than the gain: O what an honour is it, to restrain The lust of lawless youth with good advice, Or prick them forth with pleasance of thy vein, Whereto thou list their trained wills entice! Soon as thou 'ginn'st to set thy notes in frame, O how the rural routs to thee do cleave! Seemeth thou dost their soul of sense bereave, All as the shepheard that did fetch his dame From Pluto's baleful bower withouten leave; His music's might the hellish hound did tame. CUD. So praisen babes the peacock's spotted train, And wondren at bright Argus' blazing eye; But who rewards him e'er the more forthy, Or feeds him once the fuller by a grain? Such praise is smoke, that sheddeth in the sky; Such words be wind, and wasten soon in vain. PIERS. Abandon then the base and viler clown; Lift up thyself out of the lowly dust, And sing of bloody Mars, of wars, of giusts; Turn thee to those that wield the awful crown, To doubted knights, whose woundless armour rusts, And helms unbruised waxen daily brown.