u justly claim'st thy bays:
Virtue rewards herself; thy work's thy praise.

T. JOURDAN.[10]

TO THE AUTHOR, MASTER THOMAS RAWLINS.

Kind friend, excuse me, that do thus intrude,
Thronging thy volume with my lines so rude.
Applause is needless here, yet this I owe,
As due to th' Muses; thine ne'er su'd (I know)
For hands, nor voice, nor pen, nor other praise
Whatsoe'er by mortals us'd, thereby to raise
An author's name eternally to bliss.
Were't rightly scann'd (alas!) what folly 'tis!
As if a poet's single work alone
Wants power to lift him to the spangled throne
Of highest Jove; or needs their lukewarm fires,
To cut his way or pierce the circled spheres.
Foolish presumption! whosoe'er thou art,
Thus fondly deem'st of poet's princely art,
Here needs no paltry petty pioneer's skill
To fortify; nay, thy mellifluous quill
Strikes Momus with amaze and silence deep,
And doom'd poor Zoilus to the Lethean sleep.
Then ben't dismay'd, I know thy book will live,
And deathless trophies to thy name shall give.
Who doubts, where Venus and Minerva meet
In every line, how pleasantly they greet?
Strewing thy paths with roses, red and white,
To deck thy silver-streams of fluent wit;
And entertain the graces of thy mind.
O, may thy early head sweet shelter find
Under the umbrage of those verdant bays,
Ordain'd for sacred poesy's sweet lays!
Such are thy lines, in such a curious dress,
Compos'd so quaintly, that, if I may guess,
None save thine own should dare t' approach the press.

I. GOUGH.[11]

TO THE INGENIOUS AUTHOR.

A sour and austere kind of men there be,
That would outlaw the laws of poesy;
And from a commonwealth's well-govern'd lists
Some grave and too much severe Platonists
Would exclude poets, and have enmity
With the soul's freedom, ingenuity.
These are so much for wisdom, they forget
That Heaven allow'th the use of modest wit.
These think the author of a jest alone
Is the man that deserves damnation;
Holding mirth vicious, and to laugh a sin:
Yet we must give these cynics leave to grin.
What will they think, when they shall see thee in
The plains of fair Elysium? sit among
A crowned troop of poets, and a throng
Of ancient bards, which soul-delighting choir
Sings daily anthems to Apollo's lyre?
Amongst which thou shalt sit, and crowned thus,
Shalt laugh at Cato and Democritus.
Thus shall thy bays be superscrib'd: my