HOw safe (Endimion) had I liv'd? how blest, In all the silent privacies of rest? How might I lengthen sleeps, had I beene wise Unto my selfe, and never seene thine Eyes? My Verse (unenvy'd then) had learn'd to move A slow, meeke pace; like sober Hymns of love By some noch'd-Brownist sung; that would indeere His holy itch, to some chaste Midwives Eare: The pleasure of ambition then had bin, To me lost in the danger, and the sinne: The Mirtle Sprig (that never can decay) I had not knowne, nor Wreaths of living Bay: In stead of these, and the wild Ivy Twine, (Which our wise Fathers justly did assigne, To him that in immortall Verse exceeds) My Brow had worne, some homly Wreath of Weeds: And such low pride is safe: for though the Bay Lightning, nor Winds can blast, yet Envy may. If hidden still from thee, I should have lesse To answer now, for glory, and excesse: My surfets had not reach'd the cunning yet, To seeke an expiation from their wit: For more than Village Ale, and drowsie Beere, (Cawdles, and Broth to the dull Islander) I nere had wish'd; now, My Man, hot, and dry, With fierce transcriptions of my Poesie; Cryes, Sir, I thirst! then strait I bid him chuse (As Poets Prentices did surely use Of Greece, and Rome) some cleere, cheap Brook; there stay, And drinke at Natures charge his thirst away: Though Fasts (more than are taught i'th Kalender) Had made him weake; this gave him strength to sweare; And urge, that after Horace the divine Mæcenas knew, his Slaves drunke ever Wine: So whilst Endimion lives, hee vowes to pierce Old Gascoine Caske, or not transcribe a verse. If never knowne to thee, missing the skill How to doe good, I should have found my ill Excus'd: Th'excessive charge of Ink, and Oyle, Expence of quiet sleepes, and the vaine toyle, In which the Priest of Smyrna tooke delight, (When he for knowledge chang'd his precious sight) Had scap'd me then; now whilst I strive to please With tedious Art, I lose the lust of ease. And when our Poets (enviously miss-led) Shall finde themselves out-written, and out-read; T'will urge their sorrow too, that thou didst give To my weake Numbers, strength, and joy to live. But O! uneasie thoughts! what will become Of me, when thou retir'st into a Tombe? The Cruell, and the Envious then will say, Since now his Lord is dead; he that did sway Our publique smiles, opinion, and our praise, Till wee this Childe of Poesie did raise To Fame, and love; let's drowne him in our Inke; Where like a lost dull Plummet let him sinke From humane sight; from knowledge he was borne; Unlesse Succession finde him in our scorne. Remembrance, never to Repentance showes, The wealth wee gaine, but what wee feare to lose; Thou art my wealth; and more than Light ere spy'd, Than Easterne Hills bring forth, or Seas can hide: But thus when I rejoyce, my feares divine, I want the fate, still to preserve thee mine: And Kings depos'd, wish they had never knowne Delight, nor sway; which erst they toyl'd to owne.
