To the Author

M An's soule (th Idea of our Maker's mould)
Whiles it doth harbour in this house of clay ,
Is so ore-whelm'd with passions manifold,
Is so ore-throwne with Adam's olde decay:
That much like bastard Eagle, dimme of sight,
It dares not take a view of Reason's light.

O then, redoubled thankes deserues thy Worke ,
Whose Verse Prometheus -like striues to enflame
That sacred Sparke , which in our Soules doth lurke,
Giving blinde Reason eies to see the same:
Davies , thine Arte beyond our Arte doth reach,
For thou each Soule , soule-humbling Arte dost teach:

Thus Oxford Artists are oblig'd to thee,
Who, Stork-like building heere a while thy Nest ,
For Earthly Lodge dost leaue an heav'nly fee,
Giving a Sword to kill that foe of Rest ,
Faire learning's blott, which Scollers know to well,
I mean, Self-loue , which thy Self-Arte doth quell.
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