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ENglands brave Genius, raise thy head; and
see,
We have a Muse in this mortalitie
Of Vertue yet servives; All met not Death,
When we intoomb'd our deare Elizabeth.
Immortall Sydney, honoured Colin Clout,
Presaging what wee feele, went timely out.
Then why lives Drayton, when the Times
refuse,
Both Meanes to live, and Matter for a
Muse?
Onely without Excuse to leave us quite,
And tell us, Durst we act, he durst to write.
Now, as the people of a famish'd Towne,
Receiving no Supply, seeke up and downe
For mouldy Corne, and Bones long cast aside,
Wherewith their hunger may bee satisfied:
(Small store now left) we are inforc'd to prie
And search the darke Leaves of Antiquitie
For some good Name, to raise our Muse
againe,
In this her Crisis, whose harmonious straine
Was of such compasse, that no other Nation
Durst ever venture on a sole Translation;
Whilst our full language, Musicall, and hie,
Speakes as themselves their best of Poesie.
Drayton, amongs the worthi'st of all those,
The glorious Laurell, or the Cyprian Rose
Have ever crown'd, doth claime in every Lyne,
An equall honor from the sacred Nyne:
For if old Time could like the restlesse Maine,
Rouse himselfe backe into his Spring againe,
And on his wings beare this admired Muse,
For Ovid, Virgil, Homer, to peruse.
They would confesse, that never happier Pen,
Sung of his Loves, his Countrey, and the
Men.
WILLIAM BROWNE.
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