Classic Poem

Mayster of all essentiall and true knowledge, M. Harriots .

T O you whose depth of soule measures the height,
And all dimensions of all workes of weight,
Reason being ground, structure and ornament,
To all inuentions, graue and permanent,
And your cleare eyes the Spheres where Reason moues;
This Artizan, this God of rationall loues
Blind Homer; in this shield, and in the rest
Of his seuen bookes, which my hard hand hath drest,
In rough integuments I send for censure,
That my long time and labours deepe extensure
Spent to conduct him to our enuious light,
In your allowance may receiue some right
To their endeuours; and take vertuous heart
From your applause, crownd with their owne desert.
Such crownes suffice the free and royall mind,
But these subiected hangbyes of our kind,
These children that will neuer stand alone,
But must be nourisht with corruption,
Which are our bodies; that are traitors borne,
To their owne crownes their soules: betraid to scorne,
To gaudie insolence and ignorance:
By their base fleshes frailties, that must daunce,
Prophane attendance at their states and birth,
That are meere seruants to this seruile earth,
These must haue other crownes for meedes then merits,
Or sterue themselues, and quench their fierie spirits.
Thus as the soule vpon the flesh depends,
Vertue must wait on wealth; we must make friends,
Of the vnrighteous Mammon, and our sleights,
Must beare the formes of fooles or Parasites.
Rich mine of knowledge, ├┤ that my strange muse
Without this bodies nourishment could vse,
Her zealous faculties, onely t'aspire,
Instructiue light from your whole Sphere of fire:
But woe is me, what zeale or power soeuer
My free soule hath, my body will be neuer
Able t'attend: neuer shal I enioy,
Th'end of my happles birth: neuer employ
That smotherd feruour that in lothed embers,
Lyes swept from light, and no cleare howre remembers.
O had your perfect eye Organs to pierce
Into that Chaos whence this stiffled verse
By violence breakes: where Gloweworme like doth shine
In nights of sorrow, this hid soule of mine:
And how her genuine formes struggle for birth,
Vnder the clawes of this fowle Panther earth;
Then vnder all those formes you should discerne
My loue to you, in my desire to learne.
Skill and the loue of skill do euer kisse:
No band of loue so stronge as knowledge is;
Which who is he that may not learne of you,
Whom learning doth with his lights throne endow?
What learned fields pay not their flowers t'adorne
Your odorous wreathe? compact, put on and worne,
By apt and Adamantine industrie,
Proposing still demonstrate veritie,
For your great obiect, farre from plodding gaine,
Or thirst of glorie; when absurd and vayne,
Most students in their whole instruction are,
But in traditions meere particular:
Leaning like rotten howses, on out beames,
And with true light fade in themselues like dreames.
True learning hath a body absolute,
That in apparant sence it selfe can suite,
Not hid in ayrie termes as if it were
Like spirits fantastike that put men in feare,
And are but bugs form'd in their fowle conceites,
Nor made for sale glas'd with sophistique sleights;
But wrought for all times proofe, strong to bide prease,
And shiuer ignorants like Hercules ,
On their owne dunghils; but our formall Clearkes
Blowne for profession, spend their soules in sparkes,
Fram'de of dismembred parts that make most show,
And like to broken limmes of knowledge goe.
When thy true wisedome by thy learning wonne
Shall honour learning while there shines a Sunne;
And thine owne name in merite; farre aboue,
Their Timpanies of state that armes of loue,
Fortune or blood shall lift to dignitie;
Whome though you reuerence, and your emperie
Of spirit and soule, be seruitude they thinke
And but a beame of light broke through a chink
To all their watrish splendor: and much more
To the great Sunne, and all thinges they adore,
In staring ignorance: yet your selfe shall shine
Aboue all this in knowledge most diuine,
And all shall homage to your true-worth owe,
You comprehending all, that all, not you.
And when thy writings that now errors Night
Chokes earth with mistes, breake forth like easterne light,
Showing to euery comprehensiue eye,
High fectious brawles becalmde by vnitie,
Nature made all transparent, and her hart
Gripte in thy hand, crushing digested Art
In flames vnmeasurde, measurde out of it,
On whose head for her crowne thy soule shall sitte,
Crownd with Heauens inward brightnes shewing cleare
What true man is, and how like gnats appeare:
O fortune-glossed Pompists, and proud Misers,
That are of Arts such impudent despisers;
Then past anticipating doomes and skornes,
Which for selfe grace ech ignorant subornes,
Their glowing and amazed eyes shall see
How short of thy soules strength my weake words be,
And that I do not like our Poets preferre
For profit, praise, and keepe a squeaking stirre
With cald on muses to vnchilde their braines
Of winde and vapor: lying still in paynes,
Of worthy issue; but as one profest
In nought but truthes deare loue the soules true rest.
Continue then your sweet iudiciall kindnesse,
To your true friend, that though this lumpe of blindnes,
This skornefull, this despisde, inuerted world,
Whose head is furie-like with Adders curlde,
And all her bulke a poysoned Porcupine,
Her stings and quilles darting at worthes deuine,
Keepe vnder my estate with all contempt,
And make me liue euen from my selfe exempt,
Yet if you see some gleames of wrastling fire,
Breake from my spirits oppression, shewing desire
To become worthy to pertake your skill,
(Since vertues first and chiefe steppe is to will)
Comfort me with it and proue you affect me,
Though all the rotten spawne of earth reiect me.
For though I now consume in poesie,
Yet Homer being my roote I can not die.
But lest to vse all Poesie in the sight,
Of graue philosophie shew braines too light
To comprehend her depth of misterie,
I vow t'is onely strong necessitie
Gouernes my paines herein, which yet may vse
A mans whole life without the least abuse.
And though to rime and giue a verse smooth feet,
Vttering to vulgar pallattes passions sweet
Chaunce often in such weake capriccious spirits,
As in nought else haue tollerable merits,
Yet where high Poesies natiue habite shines,
From whose reflections flow eternall lines:
Philosophy retirde to darkest caues
She can discouer: and the proud worldes braues
Answere in any thing but impudence,
With circle of her general excellence.
For ample instance Homer more then serueth,
And what his graue and learned Muse deserueth,
Since it is made a Courtly question now,
His competent and partles iudge be you;
If these vaine lines and his deserts arise
To the high serches of your serious eyes
As he is English: and I could not chuse
But to your Name this short inscription vse,
As well assurde you would approue my payne
In my traduction; and besides this vayne
Excuse my thoughts as bent to others ames:
Might my will rule me, and when any flames
Of my prest soule break forth to their own show,
Thinke they must hold engrauen regard of you.
Of you in whom the worth of all the Graces,
Due to the mindes giftes, might embrew the faces
Of such as skorne them, and with tiranous eye
Contemne the sweat of vertuous industrie.
But as ill lines new fild with incke vndryed,
An empty Pen with their owne stuffe applied
Can blot them out: so shall their wealth-burst wombes
Be made with emptie Penne their honours tombes.