Then more ungrateful must he be, by odds,
Who doth conceal the bounty of the gods.
That's true indeed; but Envy haunteth those
Who, seeking fame, their hidden skill disclose;
Where else they might, obscur'd from her espying,
Escape the blasts and danger of envying.
Criticks will censure our best strains of wit,
And purblind Ignorance misconstrue it ;
And, which is bad, yet worse than this doth follow, Most hate the Muses and contemn Apollo.
So let them: why should we their hate esteem?
Is't not enough we of ourselves can deem ?
"Tis more to their disgrace that we scorn them,
Than unto us that they our art contemn.
Can we have better pastime than to see
Their gross heads may so much deceived be,
As to allow those doings best, where wholly
We scoff them to their face and flout their folly?
Or to behold black Envy in her prime,
Die self-consum'd whilst we vie lives with time,
And in despite of her more fame attain
Than all her malice can wipe out again?
Yea; but if I applied me to those strains,
Who should drive forth my flocks unto the plains,
Which, whilst the Muses rest and leisure crave,
Must watering, folding, and attendance have?
For if I leave with wonted care to cherish
Those tender herds, both I and they should perish.
Alexis! now I see thou dost mistake:
There is no meaning thou thy charge forsake;
Nor would I wish thee so thyself abuse
As to neglect thy calling for thy Muse;
But let these two so each of other borrow,
That they may season mirth and lessen sorrow.
Thy flock will help thy charges to defray,
Thy Muse to pass the long and tedious day;
Or whilst thou tun'st sweet measures to thy reed,
Thy sheep, to listen, will more near thee feed;
The wolves will shun them, birds above thee sing,
And lambkins dance about thee in a ring.
Nay, which is more; in this thy low estate,
Thou in contentment shalt with monarchs mate:
For mighty Pan and Ceres to us grants
Our fields and flocks shall help our outward wants;
The Muses teach us songs to put off cares,
Grac'd with as rare and sweet conceits as theirs ;
And we can think our lasses on the
greens
As fair or fairer than the fairest queens;
Or, what is more than most of them shall do,
We'll make their juster fames last longer too,
And have our lines by greatest Princes grac❜d,
When both their name and memory's defac❜d.
Therefore, Alexis! though that some disdain
The heavenly music of the rural plain,
What is't to us if they, o'erseen, contemn
The dainties which were ne'er ordain'd for them?
And though that there be other-some envy
The praises due to sacred poesy,
Let them disdain and fret till they are weary,
We in ourselves have that, shall make us merry;
Which he that wants, and had the power to know it,
Would give his life that he might die a poet.
Here thou seest me pent
Within the jaws of strict imprisonment,
A forlorn shepherd, void of all the means
Whereon man's common hope in danger leans;
Weak in myself, exposed to the hate
Of those whose envies are insatiate;
Shut from my friends, banish'd from all delights;
Nay, worse, excluded from the sacred rites.
Here I do live, 'mongst outlaws mark'd for death,
As one unfit to draw the common breath;
Where those, who to be good did never know,
Are barred from the means should make them so.
I suffer, 'cause I wish'd my country well;
And what I more must bear, I cannot tell.
I'm sure they give my body little scope,
And would allow my mind as little hope:
I waste my means, which of itself is slender,
Consume my time, perhaps my fortunes hinder,
And many crosses have, which those that can
Conceive no wrong, that hurts another man,
Will not take note of; though if half so much
Should light on them, or their own person touch,
Some that themselves, I fear, most worthy think,
With all their helps would into baseness shrink.
But, spite of hate and all that spite can do,
I can be patient yet and merry too.
That slender Muse of mine, by which my name,
Though scarce deserv'd, hath gain'd a little fame,
Hath made me unto such a fortune born,
That all misfortunes I know how to scorn;
Yea, midst these bands can slight the great'st that be,
As much as their disdain mis'steems of me.
This cave, whose very presence some affrights,
I have oft made to echo forth delights;
And hope to turn, if any justice be,
Both shame and care on those that wish'd it me.
For while the world rank villainies affords,
I will not spare to paint them out in words,
Although I still should into troubles run.
I knew what man could act, ere I begun ;
And I'll fulfil what my Muse draws me to,
Maugre all jails and purgatories too;
For whilst she sets me honest tasks about,
Virtue, or she, I know, will bear me out;
And, if, by Fate, th'abused power of some,
Must in the world's eye leave me overcome,
They shall find one fort yet, so fenc'd, I trow,
It cannot fear a mortal's overthrow.
This hope and trust that great power did infuse,
That first inspir'd into my breast a Muse,
By whom I do and ever will contemn
All those ill-haps, my foes' despite, and them.
Th'ast so well, young Philarete! play'd thy part, I am almost in love with that sweet art;
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