Classic Poem

Books, like superfluous humors bred with ease
So stuffe the world, as it becomes opprest
With taking more than it can well digest;
And now are turn'd to be a great disease.
For by this ouercharging we confound
The appetite of skill they had before:
There be'ng no end of words, nor any bound
Set to conceit the Ocean without shore.
As if man laboured with himselfe to be
As infinite in writing, as intents;
And draw his manifold uncertaintie
In any shape that passion represents:
That these innumerable images
And figures of opinion and discourse
Draw'n out in leaues, may be the witnesses
Of our defects much rather than our force.
And this proud frame of our presumption,
This Babel of our skill, this Towre of wit ,
Seemes only checkt with the confusion
Of our mistakings that dissolueth it.
And well may make vs of our knowledge doubt,
Seeing what vncertainties wee build vpon,
To be as weake within booke as without;
Or els that truth hath other shapes then one.
But yet although wee labor with this store
And with the presse of writings seeme opprest,
And haue to many bookes, yet want wee more,
Feeling great dearth and scarcenesse of the best,
Which cast in choiser shapes haue bin produc'd,
To giue the best proportions to the minde
Of our confusion, and haue introduc'd
The likeliest images frailtie can finde.
And wherein most the skill-desiring soule
Takes her delight, the best of all delight;
And where her motions euenest come to rowle
About this doubtfull center of the right.
Which to discouer this great Potentate,
This Prince Montaigne (if he be not more)
Hath more aduentur'd of his owne estate
Than euer man did of himselfe before:
And hath made such bold sallies out vpon
Custome: the mightie tyrant of the earth ,
In whose Seraglio of subiection
Wee all seeme bred-vp, from our tender birth;
As I admire his powres, and out of loue,
Here at his gate do stand, and glad I stand
So neere to him whom I do so much loue,
T'applaude his happie setling in our land:
And safe transpassage by his studious care
Who both of him and vs doth merit much,
Hauing as sumptuously, as he is rare
Plac'd him in the best lodging of our speach.
And made him now as free, as if borne here,
And as well ours as theirs, who may be proud
That he is theirs, though he be euery where
To haue the franchise of his worth allow'd.
It be'ing the proportion of a happie Pen,
Not to b'inuassal'd to one Monarchie,
But dwell with all the better world of men,
Whose spirits all are of one communitie,
Whom neither Ocean, Desarts, Rockes nor Sands
Can keepe from th'intertraffique of the minde,
But that it vents her treasure in all lands,
And doth a most secure commercement finde.
Wrap Excellencie vp neuer so much ,
In Hierogliphicques, Ciphers, Caracters,
And let her speake neuer so strange a speach,
Her Genius yet finds apt discipherers:
And neuer was she borne to dye obscure,
But guided by the starres of her owne grace,
Makes her owne fortune, and is euer sure
In mans best hold, to hold the strongest place.
And let the Critick say the worst he can ,
He cannot say but that Montaigne ye .,
Yeeldes most rich pieces and extracts of man;
Though in a troubled frame confus'dly set.
Which yet h'is blest that he hath euer seene,
And therefore as a guest in gratefulnesse,
For the great good the house yeelds him within,
Might spare to taxe th'vnapt conuayances.
But this breath hurts not, for both worke and frame,
Whilst England English speakes, is of that store
And that choyse stuffe, as that without the same
The richest librarie can be but poore.
And they vnblest who letters doe professe
And haue him not: whose owne fate beates their want
With more sound blowes, then Alcibiades
Did his Pedante that did Homer want .