Classic Poem

To Mr Iosuah Syluester, of his B ARTAS Metaphrased.

I Dare confesse; of Muses, more then nine,
Nor list, nor can I enuy none, but thine.
Shee, drencht alone in Sion's sacred Spring,
Her Makers praise hath sweetly chose to sing,
And reacheth nearest th'Angels notes aboue;
Nor lists to sing or Tales, or Warrs, or Loue.
One while I finde hir, in her nimble flight,
Cutting the brazen spheares of heav'n bright:
Thence, straight she glides, before I be aware,
Through the three regions of the liquid ayre:
Thence, rushing down, through Nature's Closet-dore,
She ransacks all her Grandame's secret store;
And, diuing to the darknes of the Deep,
Sees there what wealth the waues in prison keep:
And, what she sees aboue, belowe, betweene,
She showes and sings to others eares and eyne.
T'is true; thy Muse another's steps doth presse:
The more's her paine; nor is her praise the less.
Freedom giues scope, vnto the rouing thought;
Which, by restraint, is curb'd. Who wonders ought,
That feet, vnfettered, walken farre, or fast?
Which, pent with chaines, mote want their wonted haste.
Thou follow'st Bartasses diuiner streine;
And singst his numbers in his natiue veine.
BARTAS was some French Angell, girt with Bayes:
And thou a BARTAS art, in English Layes.
Whether is more? Me seemes (the sooth to say'n)
One BARTAS speaks in Tongues, in Nations, twayn.