To ask it; though, in most of works, it be
A penance where a man may not be free,
Rather than office, when it doth or may
Chance that the friend's affection proves allay
Yours all need doth fly

Unto the censure.

Of this so vicious humanity;

Than which, there is not unto study a more
Pernicious enemy. We see before

A many of books, even good judgments wound Themselves, through favoring what is there not found;

But I on yours far otherwise shall do,
Not fly the crime, but the suspicion too;
Though I confess, as every muse hath erred,
And mine not least, I have too oft preferred
Men past their terms, and praised some name
too much;

But 'twas with purpose to have made them such
Since, being deceived, I turn a sharper eye
Upon myself, and ask, to whom, and why,
And what I write? and vex it many days
Before men get a verse, much less a praise;
So that my reader is assured, I now

Mean what I speak, and still will keep that vo
Stand forth my object, then; you that have be
Ever at home, yet have all countries seen;
And like a compass, keeping one foot still
Upon your centre, do your circle fill

Of general knowledge; watched men, manne too,

Heard what times past have said, seen what ours do:

Which grace shall I make love to first? your skill,

Or faith in things? or is't your wealth and will T' instruct and teach? or your unwearied pain Of gathering? bounty in pouring out again? What fables have you vexed, what truth redeemed,

Antiquities searched, opinions disesteemed, Impostures branded, and authorities urged! What blots and errors have you watched and purged

Records and authors of! how rectified

Times, manners, customs! innovations spied! Sought out the fountains, sources, creeks, paths,

ways,

And noted the beginnings and decays!

Where is that nominal mark, or real rite,

Form, act, or ensign, that hath 'scaped your sight?

How are traditions there examined! how
Conjectures retrieved! and a story now
And then of times (besides the bare conduct
Of what it tells us) weaved in to instruct!
I wondered at the richness, but am lost,
To see the workmanship so 'xceed the cost!
To mark the excellent seasoning of your style,
And manly elocution; not one while
With horror rough, then rioting with wit;

But to the subject still the colors fit
In sharpness of all search, wisdom of choice,
Newness of sense, antiquity of voice!

I yield, I yield! the matter of your praise Flows in upon me, and I cannot raise A bank against it. Nothing but the round Large clasp of Nature such a wit can bound. Monarch in letters! 'mongst thy titles shown Of others' honors, thus enjoy thy own. I first salute thee so; and gratulate

With that thy style, thy keeping of thy state,
In offering this thy work to no great name,
That would, perhaps, have praised and thanked
the same,

But naught beyond. He thou hast given it to,
Thy learned chamber-fellow,17 knows to do
It true respects: he will not only love,
Embrace, and cherish; but he can approve
And estimate thy pains, as having wrought
In the same mines of knowledge; and thence
brought

Humanity enough to be a friend,

And strength to be a champion, and defend
Thy gift 'gainst envy. O how I do count
Among my comings in, and see it mount,
The gain of your two friendships! Heyward and
Selden! two names that so much understand!

17 Edward Heyward, of Carveston, in Norfolk, to whom Selden dedicated the Titles of Honor, as his " beloved friend and chamber-fellow." - B.

On whom I could take up, and ne'er abuse
The credit, what would furnish a tenth muse!
But here's no time, nor place, my wealth to tell;
You both are modest. So am I. Farewell.

TO PERSUADE HIM TO THE WARS.

Wake, friend, from forth thy lethargy! The drum
Beats brave and loud in Europe, and bids come
All that dare rouse, or are not loath to quit
Their vicious ease, and be o'erwhelmed with it.
It is a call to keep the spirits alive

That gasp for action, and would yet revive
Man's buried honor, in his sleepy life;
Quickening dead Nature to her noblest strife.
All other acts of worldlings are but toil
In dreams, begun in hope, and end in spoil.
Look on th' ambitious man, and see him nurse
His unjust hopes with praises begged, or, worse,
Bought flatteries, the issue of his purse,

Till he become both their and his own curse !
Look on the false and cunning man, that loves
No
person, nor is loved; what ways he proves
To gain upon his belly; and at last

Crushed in the snaky brakes that he had passed!

18 The Mr. Colby to whom this satire upon the times was addressed is unknown to fame. Whalley conjectures, from the subject of the epistle, that he was in the military service, and thinks it probable, from an allusion to the office, - see post, p. 176, that he may have been muster-master of the forces.-B.

D

See the grave, sour, and supercilious sir,
In outward face, but inward, light as fur,
Or feathers, lay his fortune out to show,
Till envy wound or maim it at a blow!

See him that's called, and thought, the happiest

man,

Honored at once, and envied, if it can

Be honor is so mixed, by such as would,
For all their spite, be like him, if they could.
No part or corner man can look upon,
But there are objects bid him to be gone
As far as he can fly, or follow day,

Rather than here so bogged in vices stay.

The whole world here leavened with madness

swells,

And, being a thing blown out of naught, rebels
Against his Maker, high alone with weeds,
And impious rankness of all sects and seeds;
Not to be checked or frighted now with fate,
But more licentious made, and desperate!
Our delicacies are grown capital,
And even our sports are dangers what we call
Friendship, is now masked hatred justice fled,
And shamefastness together! all laws dead
That kept man living! pleasures only sought!
Honor and honesty, as poor things thought
As they are made! pride and stiff clownage mixed
To make up greatness! and man's whole good
fixed

In bravery, or gluttony, or coin,