Classic Poem

To the Booke as it is dedicated vnto his most excellent Maiestie.

T H rise happy Issue, brain-begotten Birth,
Wit's pure Extraction, life of Poesie,
Togither borne with England's endlesse mirth;
How haue the Heauens grace't thy nativity!

Wast from disdaine to powre th' ambrosian dew
(Dropping like Nectar from a sacred quill)
Into the common Lavour, vulgar view ;
That Heaven deferd thy birth these howres vntill?

O blessed Booke , reserv'd to kisse that hand,
From which, desert nere parted discontent!
Go, pay thy vowes; await his dread command
To whom in prostrate duety thou art sent.

Shall He say, liue? flie Time; swell Lethe lake;
Burst fell Detraction; thou liu'st: and when
A thousand Ages dust shall over-rake,
Thy living Lines shall please both God, and men:

For, grace't by him , whom swift intelligence
Hath made Arch-Master of each excellence
It needes must follow, that succeeding daies
Cannot detract from what he dain'd to praise.