Classic Poem

Now are we launching to a sea profound,
(Where some may saile, but all may well be drown'd)
Thee to discouer, for their publike weale
That for wit traffick and for science deale.
Care stirre our compasse. Wit our course direct:
So may we finde in thy cleere intellect
Thy parts abstruse; which base plebeians view not
And to thy daies, all wisdom's-searchers know not
Thine eyes (O blest! and for that, glorious eyes)
To search those vncouth seas did enterprise
Where Venice hangs (a pearle between their brests)
Both which they pen (with firy maw) digests
To vent into one volume; where we may
See Venice, and those seas their loynes display
To shew their secrets: Fy, O fy, that we
Should see that sight, and not enamor'd be
Of thy so subtill skill; that sets them out
(As nurses do their babes) bare all about
Some speake of Chyna, some of Iapan speake
And quaintly set them foorth in euery creeke:
Vaine men! they labour but to please themselues.
But thou describst the citties, seas and shelues,
That mvch import vs, which we stil frequent;
But theirs is but vaine Trauells' excrement
For, what haue we to doe with Chyna? Iaua?
Or with strange wasts of wilde America?
What with Earth's vtmost confines? what with all
That terra incognita wee do call?
No, no (alas) their wits are but so, so,
To go to these for nothing but to go:
But thou (the rarest of all witty crewes,
Master of arts and tongues, that fame pursues)
In choyce discretion, wentst but to those places
Wee vse in all our tenses, moodes and cases
That tunne which is not past a myle about
On Earths vast globe: yet thine eye found it out
And hast so well made its dimensions knowne.
And what it holds hast so exactly showne,
That now (as it were hanging at his eares)
It to th' untrauell'd Ignorant appeares:
And if he list to try it by his touch,
Thou tell'st it is found among the Douch:
Of Heidelbergh, thou sayst it is the I VNNE ;
That holds inough, if it at waste should runne
To drowne the country twenty miles about;
Which ne're was noted till thou foundst it out:
For what could euer such a moate descry,
But thy great trauell, and more peircing eye?
We call it moat respectiuely, because
To Earths proportion it no neerer drawes
In which regard, thy glory is the more,
That soundst it for our comfort: we adore
Thee Coriet for it, as the Pagans erst
Adorèd Bacchus, who found wine out first.
Thy booke that is forth-comming in thy brest,
(Of this discou'ry) shall relate the rest:
And what thou dost dinulge in this rare booke
Must needs be truth, or (barely) like her looke,
Sith it is said, ‘The wise and innocent
Tell euer true their tydings and intent.
But O that booke of bookes is such a thing.
As makes all wits the praise thereof to sing:
And Wits of note do striue, most notably,
Which shall vp-lift it hard'st against the skye
In praise for this Discou'ry, so renownd
And good for vs; for sacke doth make vs sound
In which aduenture (rightest man-diuel)
Thou didst eu'n thine owne excellence excell,
So as selfe worthies admires thy worth;
Which for thy glory, thus we flash it forth
Thou in pure zeale (a vertue most diuine)
Didst beate a lew, till his eyes streamèd bryne:
Which vertue dimmes the Malta-knights; because
To high exploits, reward them chiefly drawes;
Which thou dost scorne; for zeale (that makes thee flame)
Holds gaine a staine, but takes it out in fame
When grapes thou chewedst and the Almaine boore
Did borish out-rage to thy teeth therefore,
A dramme of Tully trowling from thy tongue.
So charm'd his rage that he (then) lay along
As (in a rapture) drown'd with admiration
Of thy deliueries fluent inundation:
That thou the while (like Orpheus in hell)
His grapes did'st rauish and the slaue compell
T' adore thee as a god. O tricke of Schooles!
(Which vulgar-bloud men euen in the boyling cooles)
How should we celebrate the boundlesse fame
Of him that with thee straight made fury tame?
O Coriat! never more to be forgot,
Wee do confesse thy praise wee do but blot
With ynke which falls too fast from our rude pen,
Who art esteem'd the ioy or mirth of men.
But O the workes which thou dost still ore-see.
Do marke thy Muse of Nine the teithing shee,
To feede Apollos priests (sith now they fat not)
With marrow of Arts rheynes and Learning's what not?
Thy fore-head (rendeuous of outward sences)
Holds common sence and their intelligences;
Which to the middle region of thy braine
Conuaies them all, thy iudgement to maintaine
Against all contradiction and dispute
To raigne ore Wits, as monarche absolute
In thy heads taile, the catalogue is found
Of all the works that grow in Learning's ground:
Where with a question (without question) wee
Their nature and thine art may (ready) see
Thy presence (like the presence of the sunne)
Doth cheare the place, thy beames do ouer-runne
And makes the company that it possesses
Swim in delight, though drownd in deep distresses:
The strange meanders of thy Wits vagaries
Do grauell all disputing in St. Maries
(In Oxford call'd the Austines) nay, then all
That logick learne or letters liberall,
Thy most sharpe-pointed iudgement, that doth pierce
The hard'st positions both in prose and verse,
May be admir'd but not expressèd bee
In verse nor prose. O then be rulde by mee,
Tender thyselfe, if these rude times of ours
Neglect thy wit, as being past their powers
Of apprehention: so, thou maist, in time
Climbe Honers hill with feete of prose or rime:
And be enthrond in Glories ebon chaire,
To which there is no other certaine staire
But thy most stiffe perfections and degrees
Of vertues, sweeter then the hony bees
But all thine all is more then all too much
For Mercury himselfe to taste or touch
Therefore as Zeuxis drew a vaile on that
He could not well with Arte delineate:
So must I doe by thee and draw a line
As biacke as iet to hide thy glories shine:
Which if my cunning failes not, shall be this
 Coriet still seemes no more but what he is.