Than coldly sparing that, the truth should go and all.
And surely I suppose, that which this froward time
Doth scandalize her with to be her heinous crime,
That her most preserv'd: for, still where wit hath found
A thing most clearly true, it made that fiction's ground:
Which she suppos'd might give sure colour to them both :
From which, as from a root, this wondred error growth,
At which our critics gird, whose judgments are so strict,
And he the bravest man who most can contradict
That which decrepit age (which forced is to leane
Upon tradition) tells; esteeming it so meane,

As they it quite reject, and for some trifling thing
(Which time hath pinn'd to truth) they all away will fling.
These men (for all the world) like our precisians be,
Who for some crosse or saint they in the window see
Will pluck down all the church: soul-blinded sots that creepe
In dirt, and never saw the wonders of the deepe:
Therefore (in my conceit) most rightly serv'd are they
That to the Roman trust (on his report that stay)
Our truth from him to learn, as ignorant of ours
As we were then of his; except 'twere of his powers:
Who our wise Druyds here unmercifully slew ;
Like whom, great Nature's depths no men yet ever knew,
Nor with such dauntless spirits were ever yet inspir'd;
Who at their proud arrive th' ambitious Romans fir'd,
When first they heard them preach the soul's immortal state;
And even in Rome's despite, and in contempt of fate,
Grasp'd hands with horrid death: which out of hate and pride
They slew, who through the world were reverenced beside.
To understand our state, no marvail then though we
Should so to Cæsar seek, in his reports to see
What anciently we were; when in our infant war,
Unskilful of our tongue but by interpreter,

He nothing had of ours which our great bards did sing,
Except some few poor words; and those again to bring
Unto the Latin sounds, and easiness they us'd,

By their most filed speech, our British most abus'd.
But of our former state, beginning, our descent,

The wars we had at home, the conquests where we went,
He never understood. And though the Romans here
So noble trophies left, as very worthy were

A people great as they, yet did they ours neglect,
Long rear'd ere they arriv'd.

IDEAS.

SINCE there's no help, come, let us kisse and part,
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myselfe can free;
Shake hands for ever, cancell all our vowes;
And when we meet at any time againe,
Be it not seen in either of our browes
That we one jot of former love retaine.
Now at the last gaspe of Love's latest breath,
When his pulse failing, passion speechlesse lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,

Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.

LOVE banish'd heaven, in earth was held in scorne,
Wand'ring abroad in need and beggery;
And wanting friends, though of a goddesse borne,
Yet crav'd the almes of such as passed by:
I, like a man devout and charitable,

Cloth'd the naked, lodg'd this wand'ring guest,
With sighes and teares still furnishing his table,
With what might make the miserable blest;
But this ungratefull, for my good desert,
Intic'd my thoughts against me to conspire,
Who gave consent to steale away my heart,
And set my breast, his lodging, on a fire.

Well, well, my friends, when beggers grow thus bold,
No marvell then though charity grow cold.

As Love and I late harbour'd in one inne
With proverbs thus each other entertaine:
In love there is no lacke, thus I begin;
Faire words make fooles, replieth he againe;

Who spares to speake, doth spare to speed, (quoth I);
As well (saith he) too forward, as too slow:
Fortune assists the boldest, I reply;

A hasty man (quoth he) ne'er wanted woe:

Labour is light, where love (quoth I) doth pay; (Saith he) Light burthens heavy, if far borne: (Quoth I) The maine lost, cast the by away; Y' have spun a faire thred, he replies in scorne. And having thus awhile each other thwarted, Fooles as we met, so fooles again we parted.

TO HIMSELFE AND THE HARPE.

AND why not I, as hee
That's greatest, if as free,
(In sundry strains that strive,
Since there so many be)

Th' old Lyrick kind revive?

I will, yea, and I may;
Who shall oppose my way ?
For what is he alone,
That of himselfe can say,

Hee's heire of Helicon?

Apollo, and the Nine,

Forbid no man their shrine,

That commeth with hands pure;

Else they be so divine,

They will him not indure.

For they be such coy things,
That they care not for kings,
And dare let them know it;
Nor may he touch their springs,
That is not borne a Poet.

The Phocean it did prove,
Whom when foule lust did move,

Those mayds unchaste to make,

Fell, as with them he strove,

His neck, and justly, brake.

That instrument ne'r heard,
Strooke by the skilfull bard,
It strongly to awake;
But it th' infernalls skar'd,

And made Olympus quake.

As those prophetike strings
Whose sounds with fiery wings
Drave fiends from their abode,
Touch'd by the best of kings,
That sang the holy ode:

So his, which women slue,
And it int' Hebrus threw,

Such sounds yet forth it sent,
The bankes to weepe that drue,
As downe the streame it went.

That by the tortoyse-shell,
To Maya's sonne it fell,

The most thereof no doubt,
But sure some power did dwell
In him who found it out.

The wildest of the field,
The ayre, with rivers t' yeeld,

Which mov'd; that sturdy glebes,

And massie oakes could weeld

To rayse the pyles of Thebes.

And diversly though strung,
So anciently we sung

To it, that now scarce knowne,

If first it did belong

To Greece or if our owne.

The Druydes imbrew'd
With gore, on altars rude

With sacrifices crown'd
In hollow woods bedew'd,
Ador'd the trembling sound.

Though we be all to seeke
Of Pindar that great Greeke,
To finger it aright,

The soule with power to strike,
His hand retain'd such might.

Or him that Rome did grace,
Whose
ayres we all imbrace,

That scarcely found his peere, Nor giveth Phoebus place

For strokes divinely cleere.

The Irish I admire,

And still cleave to that lyre,
As our musike's mother,
And thinke, till I expire,
Apollo's such another.

As Britons, that so long
Have held this antike song,
And let all our carpers
Forbeare their fame to wrong,
Th' are right skilfull harpers.

Southerne, I long thee spare,
Yet wish thee well to fare,
Who me so pleased'st greatly,
As first, therefore more rare,
Handling thy harpe neatly.

To those that with despight
Shall terme these numbers slight,
Tell them their judgment's blind,
Much erring from the right,

It is a noble kind.

Nor is't the verse doth make,
That giveth or doth take,
'Tis possible to clyme,
To kindle, or to slake,

Although in Skelton's ryme.

AN ODE WRITTEN IN THE PEAKE.

THIS while we are abroad,

Shall we not touch our lyre?
Shall we not sing an Ode?
Shall that holy fire,

In us that strongly glow'd,
In this cold ayre expire?