Classic Poem

Bookes the amasse of humors, swolne with ease,
The Griefe of peace, the maladie of rest,
So stuffe the world, falne into this disease,
As it receiues more then it can digest:
And doe so ouercharge, as they confound
The apetite of skill with idle store:
There being no end of words, nor any bound
Set to conceipt, the Ocean without shore .
As if man labor'd with himselfe to be
As infinite in words, as in intents,
And drawe his manifold incertaintie
In eu'ry figure, passion represents;
That these inuumerable visages
And strange shapes of opinions and discourse
Shadowed in leaues, may be the witnesses
Rather of our defects, then of our force.
And this proud frame of our presumption,
This Babel of our skill, this Towre of wit ,
Seemes onely checkt with the confusion
Of our mistakings, that dissolueth it.
And well may make vs of our knowledge doubt,
Seeing what vncertainties we build vpon,
To be as weake within booke as without;
Or els that truth hath other shapes then one.
But yet although we labor with this store
And with the presse of writings seeme opprest,
And haue too many bookes, yet want we more,
Feeling great dearth and scarsenesse 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
Then euer man did of himselfe before:
And hath made such bolde sallies out vpon
Custome: the mightie tyrant of the earth ,
In whose Seraglio of subiection
We 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 being the portion of a happie Pen,
Not to b'inuassal'd to one Monarchie,
But dwell with all the better world of men
Whose spirits are all 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 Critic say the worst he can ,
He cannot say but that Montaigne yet ,
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 do professe
And haue him not: whose owne fate beates their want
With more sound blowes, then Alcibiades
Did his Pedante that did Homer want .