In Honour of Du Bartas.
Among the happy wits this age hath shown
Great, dear, sweet Bartas thou art matchless known;
My ravished eyes and heart with faltering tongue,
In humble wise have vowed their service long
But knowing th' task so great & strength but small,
Gave o're the work before begun withal,
My dazled sight of late reviewed thy lines,
Where Art, and more than Art in nature shines,
Reflection from their beaming altitude
Did thaw my frozen hearts ingratitude
Which rayes darting upon some richer ground
Had caused flours and fruits soon to abound,
But barren I, my Dasey here do bring,
A homely flower in this my latter Spring,
If Summer, or my Autumm age do yield
Flours, fruits, in Garden Orchard, or in Field,
Volleyes of praises could I eccho then,
Had I an Angels voice, or Bartas pen;
But wishes can't accomplish my desire,
Pardon if I adore, when I admire.
O France thou did'st in him more glory gain
Then in St. Lewes, or thy last Henry Great,
Who tam'd his foes in warrs, in bloud and sweat,
Thy fame is spread as far, I dare be bold,
In all the Zones, the temp'rate, hot and cold,
Their Trophies were but heaps of wounded slain,
Shine the quintessence of an heroick brain.
The oaken Garland ought to deck their brows,
Immortal Bayes to thee all men allows,
Who in thy tryumphs never won by wrongs,
Lead'st millions chained by eyes, by ears, by tongues,
Oft have I wondred at the hand of heaven,
In giving one what would have served seven,
If e're this golden gift was show'd on any,
They shall be consecrated in my Verse,
And prostrate offered at great Bartas Herse;
My muse unto a child I may compare
Who sees the riches of some famous Fair,
He feeds his Eyes, but understanding lacks
To comprehend the worth of all those knacks
The glittering plate and Jewels he admires,
